


My fall will be for you

by LadyStitch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Rating May Change, Romance, for future adult content, spoilers from the game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyStitch/pseuds/LadyStitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a solitary elf and a broken man, and how they learn the importance of justice and duty, but also friendship and affection, during their quest to save the world, through fights and political intrigues. Until they finally find love and redemption in each other’s arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**X. Prologue**

_My fall will be for you_  
_My love will be in you_  
_If you be the one to cut me_  
_I will bleed forever_

“Ghost love score” – Nightwish

* * *

“I don’t understand. What did I do to deserve this?”

“Da’len, you did nothing wrong. This is _not_ a punishment, rather it is the opposite.”

“I beg to differ, Keeper. You are sending me away from our clan, alone, to attend to some kind of religious service, with a bunch of unknown shemlens… How could this _not_ be a punishment?”

Deshanna takes a deep breath, while her gaze gets lost in the cloudy sky above their camp. “These are dark times, you saw it by yourself. There is a growing corruption that is spreading inside and outside the wilderness.”

“Are you talking about those corpses we found in that cave? They were clearly mages who probably starved to death. I pity them, though things like that happen because shems are rude people, not capable of dealing with magic. Why should this bother us?”

In another situation, the old mage would have giggled at her apprentice’s cynical lines – she’s just like her mother. Yet, they cannot afford to laugh now. “There is a war going on, Da’len. Ignoring it, and how it will impact the future of us all, would be as arrogant and irresponsible as the way the shemlens behave. We are better than that, aren’t we?”

The dark haired elf doesn’t reply, her piercing emerald eyes staring at her gravely. The Keeper knows very well what’s going on inside her rational mind – that disappointed frown always has been the same ever since she was a child. A lonely and shy child, but with such strength and determination that Deshanna hardly found in any other member of her clan.

“You are my First. There is no other I trust more, and you know that. _This_ is why I need you to go there. You’ll be my eyes and my ears during the Conclave.” She makes a step towards the other woman, raising her hand to caress her freckled cheek.

In the story of their clan, magic always played an important role, still it was decades since the last mage were born – the Keeper herself. So, when Gwen Lavellan came to life, the event was read as a sign: that baby was sent to this world designed for a great purpose.

Deshanna is aware that growing up with such weigh over her shoulders has not been easy for the girl, yet her First showed to be proud of it, doing her best to not let the expectations of the clan down. As soon as they started to train together, she proved to be one of the most powerful and talented enchantresses the Dalish ever had, her iron will and strong determination never leaving her.

“I finally understood what is the Creators’ design for you, Da’len,” the Keeper continues. “You were born to accomplish a great mission, something that won’t happen if you stay here. I know that, and you know that.”

Gwen opens her mouth to reply, but no word comes out of it. The look of disappointment on her face slowly turns into concern. Yes, she’s aware that that is the truth, yet this doesn’t make it less frightening.

“You have to go to the Conclave because this is what is written in your fate.” Deshanna takes her face with both her hands, her fingers tracing lightly the dark tattoos under her eyes. “Do you remember the meaning of the vallaslin you wear?”

“It represents Mythal, the Protector and the All-Mother.”

“Exactly.” She nods. “She is the goddess of love, the patron of motherhood and justice. You grew up following those virtues, and you wore your markings with pride. The moment has come for you to employ your gifts for the greater good. You’re going to do important things and you will do us all proud.”

The young mage sighs. “I– I need some time to ponder about that, Keeper.”

“I know, Da’len. Take the time you need. I know you will do the right thing. You always do, my dear Gwen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins, at last!
> 
> This fanfic is about my OTP Gwen x Blackwall (Blackwen!), and it will tell all their story, from the beginning of the game till Trespasser, and probably even further. My project might be ambitious, given that I never wrote such long fanfic, but this story and my OTP really mean a lot to me, so I’ll do my best to go on with it until the end.
> 
> I’ve been working on this fic from what seems ages, and I can barely believe I’m finally managing to post it. I hope you’ll like it! Please, comment and review, I’d really appreciate to know your opinions.
> 
> The biggest thanks go to my super awesome friends **Saraportela** and **Kaidansbioticapprentice** from Tumblr. They always always always supported me and my writings (since the beginning of my Shenko works!), listening and commenting all my ideas, and helping me step by step while writing this fic. Sweeties, I couldn’t do it without you, you are the best of the best and I love you to bits! ♥
> 
> A special thanks goes also to the lovely **Galtori** , who is patiently helping me with my English, correcting all my grammar mistakes. Thank you my friend! ♥


	2. The Herald of Andraste

**1\. The Herald of Andraste**

_“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”_

_“Someone help me!”_

_“What’s going on here?”_

_“Run while you can! Warn them!”_

_“We have an intruder. Slay the elf!”_

* * *

Gwen Lavellan opens her eyes abruptly.

What she sees is an unknown wooden ceiling, illuminated by a faint light – a fire, perhaps?

_What– Where am I?_

There is peace and warmth all around her. Slowly, she rises her back from the surface she’s lying on – a real and soft mattress? How is that possible?

Those foreign voices in her head… Were they part of a dream?

She tries to focus on her memories, though there is only confusion in her mind: a demon, green energy, blood on the snow, smell of burnt flesh.

Suddenly, a rustling noise, followed by a surprised gasp, stirs her up from her thoughts, attracting her attention somewhere else in the room.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

Gwen, who’s now sitting on the bed, looks at the newcomer, shocked. Another reminiscence hits her, hard –  she was captured, locked up in a cold and damp cell.

“Is this another prison?”

The little elf in front of her startles at her question. “I… no? I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Then where am I? Tell me!”

She immediately regrets her severe tone, because of how it affects the young brunette, who throws herself at her feet. “I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

_A servant? Creators, she’s barely a girl._

“You are back in Haven, my lady,” she continues. “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on you hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

The mage tries to wrap her head around what the other person is saying.

Keeper Deshanna has sent her there because of the Conclave of the shems.

_The Breach._

There has been an explosion that destroyed almost everything and ripped open the Veil, creating a passage for spirits and demons from the Fade towards this world.

_The mark._

She stares down at her left palm. An odd, powerful energy is irradiated from here, making it glow, while charges of electricity run through her fingers. Despite her special abilities, this is not something she is used to.

One by one, each missing piece of the puzzle goes into place.

* * *

_“Quickly, before more come through!” an unknown male elf shouts at Gwen, grabbing her hand and pointing it towards the greenish tear in the Veil in the middle of the snowy place. The strange wound seems to react immediately, unleashing a discharge of power against it._

_A throbbing ache runs through her arm, making her scream helplessly. It’s like the blood in her veins just evaporated, being replaced by liquid fire that is eager to reach out to that portal, burning all the muscles and the bones on its way._

_In the haze caused by the pain, the woman feels her body getting lighter, almost incorporeal, her conscience slowly slipping away, far far away._

Am I dying?

Yes, I am. It hurts too much, it can’t be otherwise.

But… I can’t die.

Not yet.

NOT YET!

_For a brief moment, Gwen regains control over her body, and freeing herself from the hold of the stranger, she concentrates all her power in her hand, closing her fingers over the slit, and pulling with all her strength at the flux of green energy that is becoming one with the portal. A noisy explosion follows her action, shoving her on the ground._

_Suddenly all the pain is gone – actually, the Dalish never felt so good, at peace, ever since the incident at the Conclave. She opens her eyes, just to find the bald man above her, trying to help her stand up again._

_“What did you do?” she breathes heavily, shaken by the whole situation._

_“I did nothing,”  he answers. “The credit is yours.”_

_The mage looks at her shining injury now apparently closed. “You mean this, the mark?”_

_“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky, also placed that mark upon your hand,” he explains. “I theorized it might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.”_

_Another woman is at her side. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”_

_“Possibly,” the elf nods, his gaze locked on the stunned Lavellan. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”_

* * *

“Then the danger is over.” She sighs.

“The Breach is still in the sky, but that’s what they say,” the servant stands up again, ready to run away from there, anxious. “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. ‘At once,’ she said.”

Human female.

High cheekbones, strong jawline, frowny expression.

Right, she remembers her.

“And where is she?”

“In the chantry, with the lord chancellor.”

* * *

_“This is the Divine’s directive: rebuilt the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.”_

Gwen shakes her head, confused. What did she just throw herself into? Did she really accept to join a new organization lead by some unknown shem, an organization that not even their own people will likely support?

_“We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order.”_

A worthy goal, no doubt about it.

And those women, Cassandra and Leliana… The elf doesn’t know much about Andrastian Chantry and such, though she heard they were close to the deceased Divine, the leader of their cult. They proved to be skilled in battle back at the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, when they had to deal with those creatures coming out from the Breach.

Yet, will it be enough?

_“We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”_

_“But we have no choice: we must act now. With you at our side.”_

With her? She’s just a Dalish who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and somehow it cost her a greenish shiny slit on her left hand. How is she supposed to be of any help?

Actually, she’s a gifted mage and a remarkable fighter, but she doesn’t know anything about Fade rifts and defeating demons, or even less about human institutions. Still, caught up in the heat of the moment, she agreed to their request.

_“Help us fix this before it’s too late.”_

Discouraged, Lavellan moves past the doors of the chantry, that readily close behind her. Once again, as it happened a couple of hours earlier, when she strolled through the village, she is welcomed by a multitude of soldiers and peasants that bows in front of her with reverence.

“That’s her. That’s the Herald of Andraste.”

She steps carefully in the middle of that whispering crowd, sensing all the eyes on her. When she arrived there one week ago, she quickly got accustomed to the astonished and distrustful glances the shems used to throw at her, the sole Dalish that joined the Conclave. But this – this was different.

“Why did Lady Cassandra have her in chains? I thought Seekers knew everything.”

“It’s complicated. We were all frightened after the explosion at the Conclave.”

“It isn’t complicated. Andraste herself blessed her!”

Of all the odd things that she would have anticipated during her trip towards Haven, Gwen would never have guessed she’d end up being some kind of religious icon for those people. This whole situation might even seem funny, if it wouldn’t scare the void out of her.

She hardly took upon herself all the expectation that her clan had for her since she was born, ‘the girl chosen by the Creators’. And now this? ‘Herald of Andraste’? She barely knows who this prophetess was. How could she be her herald?

“They said when she came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her.”

“Hush. We shouldn’t disturb her.”

The mage doesn’t know exactly what occurred to her before they found her among the debris. She remembers running away from strange creatures that were chasing her. They almost overwhelmed her when a woman stood in front of her, pointing her the way out from that nightmare. Lavellan reached out to her, then everything went blank. The last thing she recalls is waking up in that prison, where the hot-tempered Seeker Cassandra and the red-headed Sister Leliana interrogated her.

“Chancellor Roderick says that the Chantry wants nothing to do with us.”

“That isn’t Chancellor Roderick’s decision, sister.”

 _On that, we can agree._ Gwen thinks, as she walks by a bunch of women wearing white and pink gowns – priestess?

That Roderick guy… He showed up being very unfriendly and quite aggressive towards her since the first moment they met, right before their attempt to close the Breach. Apparently, he thinks she’s the one to blame for the incident at the Conclave, and he threatened to imprison her. Again.

_May the Dread Wolf take him, blasted shem._

“That’s her. She stopped the Breach from getting any bigger.”

“I heard she was supposed to close it entirely.”

This is precisely what the Chancellor said as well. _“The elf failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way.”_

Thank the Gods, Cassandra ignored his unfounded accusations – she witnessed the vision of the Divine being attacked by an unknown entity at the ruins of the Temple. Although the scene was blurry, the image of the young Lavellan trying to help the other woman was clearly recognizable, and apparently it was enough to prove her innocence.

“Still a lot of rifts left all over. Little cracks in the sky.”

“She can seal those, though – the Herald of Andraste.”

Hearing all those people putting their blind faith in her, causes chills to run down the Dalish’s spine. What will happen if she will not be able to do it? Will they blame her anew? Will they lock her up in a cell and throw the key away?

Both the Seeker and Sister Leliana seemed to be honest when they promised her that the Inquisition will protect her, but… They are all shemlens, she can’t really trust them.

No matter what these people say to her, no matter how much they worship her, and no matter how much this makes her feel awkward, she can’t afford to lower her guard – not now, not ever.

“Good luck sealing those rifts.”

“Blessing upon you, Herald of Andraste.”

“Walk safely, Herald of Andraste.”

Finally, Gwen arrives back to the small wooden cabin where she woke up hours ago. She steps into it, hastily, shutting out all the praises and the murmurs. Exhausted, she lets herself fall on the bed, grabbing the pillow and burying her face into it.

Ironically, despite being accustomed to the nomadic life of her people, sleeping in tents on uncomfortable bedrolls, she always dreamed to have a real and soft bed. Yet, now that she has one, all she wishes is to be able to go back to her clan, to her old solitary life in the wilderness of the Free Marches.

Heaving a deep sigh, she turns her head to the left to examine at the wound on her palm, ‘the key to their salvation’.

_Fenedhis! Where does this cursed mark come from? What is it?_

No one seems to know the answers, not even the enigmatic man who studied it while she was passed out in the prison – Solas, if she remembers right. At least, the fear it could kill her has disappeared along with the pain.

A knock at the door startles the woman out of her thoughts.

“My lady, may I come in?” The servant’s shy voice sounds almost like a whisper.

“Of course,” Lavellan replies, while moving to a seated position.

The girl enters the room carrying a small tray with a steamy bowl. “I beg your pardon, my lady, I didn’t want to disturb you. I’ve been instructed to bring you dinner.”

“Oh– well, thank you,” Gwen says, a bit embarrassed. As soon as the smell of vegetable soup and fresh bread reaches her nostrils, her stomach rumbles with hunger – when was the last time she had a meal?

“You don’t have to thank me. My job is to serve you, my lady.”

The Dalish grimaces at her affirmation. She always hated seeing her kind being reduced into servitude – or, even worse, into slavery. “You don’t… I don’t want– I don’t need a servant.” She stammers right before swallowing a mouthful of food.

Again, her words come out harsher than she intended, and, again, they affect badly the other elf, that kneels at her feet, weeping. “Oh, my lady! Please, forgive me if I have done something that offended you. I didn’t mean to, I’m am just a humble–”

“Creators, no!” Gwen, appalled, drops the tray on the bed and joins her on the floor. “No, please, don’t do this. You did nothing wrong, Da’len. It just– it doesn’t feel right, that’s all.”

“Oh no, my lady! Everyone in the village has their duties, while I can’t do anything but serve,” the girl explains between sobs. “I just want to be of any help. You are the Herald of Andraste, the one who will save us all. Please, allow me to take care of you. I promise you, I won’t disturb you. Please, my lady!”

Suddenly, the reality of the whole situation sinks down into the mage’s mind. All her hatred towards the shems made her forget that there are not just them in danger, but the whole country – perhaps the whole Thedas.

And, if she’d really have to live in close contact with people from different cultures, she could definitely use help.

She takes a deep breath. “What’s your name, Da’len?”

“Oh– I’m Audrey, my lady.”

“Nice to meet you, Audrey. My name is Gwen, Gwen Lavellan. Now… Let’s make a deal.”

The brunette shyly raises her head, her glistering honeyed eyes meeting intense emerald ones. “A deal?”

“I will accept your assistance, gladly, only if you’ll never treat me like your superior, because I’m not. I might be able to close the Breach, though this doesn’t make me special. I’m a just woman, like you.”

“But, my lady–”

“So,” she interrupts her, “Do we have a deal?”

Audrey’s face lightens up with a lovely smile. “We do, Lady Lavellan.”

This is it.

She is the Herald of Andraste now, whether she likes it or not. She has to go through with it, there is no turning back. She might be worried and hesitant, yet she would never turn her back to her duties and to the people that need her – if the mark on her hand is really able to resolve this mess, then she will do her best to accomplish that.

May the Creators have mercy on her.


	3. The Lone Warden

**2\. The Lone Warden**

_Hinterlands – Lake Luthias._

The sun has already disappeared behind the mountains some hours before the weary warrior finally enters into the small abandoned cabin, that has been serving him as shelter during the last few days.

As soon as he’s inside it, he releases the seals of his armor, his breastplate falling to the ground, quickly followed by his bloodstained gloves. With a heavy sigh, the man starts to stretch his arms, then the left hand goes to his right shoulder, and when he slowly rolls it, a small pained whimper escapes from his clenched teeth.

After years spent in rainy and cold places, the veteran soldier came to this part of Ferelden, that is well known for being a fertile agricultural land and as such is populated with a great many farmsteads throughout the area. Since the end of the Fifth Blight, the Hinterlands have seen an influx of settlers from Redcliffe Village looking to escape unpleasant memories of the darkspawn and the other dark events which befell the city at that time.

And yet, ever since he arrived in there, a bunch of weeks ago, he had to face one problem after another, all in a row.

* * *

_“Someone please help us!”_

_While wandering through the unknown woods, the warrior listens to desperate cries of help and rushes to reach a family just in time to avoid their son being set on fire by a terrifying creature. His shield raised against the enemy, the man stands protecting the strangers._

_“Thank you, ser. Thank you so much!” the father tells him, but he doesn’t pay attention to those words, his attention focused on the view in front of him._

_Bloody demons coming out from a mysterious portal made of greenish energy._

_“Maker’s balls! What’s happening in here?”_

_“We don’t know, ser,” the mother replies. “A few hours ago we heard the sound of an explosion and the ground trembled. We got scared and left our farm, but we were attacked on our way towards Redcliffe. Please, help us ser!”_

* * *

And so he did.

He fought back an entire wave of demons, buying some time for him to run away from there along with the family. Somehow, they reached a road, safely, and they started to follow the trails towards the nearest town, but the scenario all around them was horribly shocking: destroyed houses, trees on fire, children crying, adults screaming, old people praying, and there was a huge tear in the sky that, despite being far in the Northwest of the country, it was quite visible – it was madness.

The man heaves a deep breath as he rests his back against the nearest wall, his mind lost in his reveries.

During his journey with that helpless family, the demons kept appearing from everywhere, and he always stood shield out, cutting them down as they came. Other groups of farmers joined them, all of them attracted and reassured by the soldier’s bravery as much as by the insignia on his chest. It was a Grey Warden’s duty to combat things like that, he repeated to them whenever they asked why he was protecting them, amazed by the skilled way he faced all the enemies they encountered.

It took them five days to reach the main road towards Redcliffe, just to find it overrun with apostates and rebel templars, in a war against each other. Once again, the strong man managed to help a small pack of scouts to save some refugees together with a woman wearing an Andrastian holy dress, and they all ran towards a safe place, where they could rest and tend to the injured.

* * *

_“Please, Mother Giselle,” one of the scouts approaches the old woman, while she’s taking care of a boy with a bloody wound on his forehead. “You should listen to us. Sister Nightingale sent us there to find you and escort you safely to Haven.”_

_“As I already told you, I’ve no intention to leave these people – not until they’re all out of danger,” she replies._

_“The Inquisition needs your help, Mother.” A young female dwarf now intervenes. “The Herald of Andraste might be able to close the Breach in the sky caused by the explosion at the Conclave, but without the Chantry support it will be all more difficult.”_

_The Grey Warden can’t help but listen to their chat from afar._ Inquisition? Herald of Andraste? Breach? Maker’s balls, what are they talking about?

_Mother Giselle finishes to secure the bandage on the kid’s head and stands up to face the dwarf. “I know of the Chantry’s denouncement, and I’m familiar with those behind it. The sudden death of Divine Justinia is a terrible blow to our institution.” She sighs. “With no Divine, we are each left to our own conscience – and mine tells me this. If this Herald really is the Savior you all claim she is, then send her here. Let her help these refugees, let them see what she– what your Inquisition is capable of. After that, we shall talk about the support.”_

* * *

Even though he never had a great deal of devotion towards the Chantry, the veteran soldier always showed immense respect towards people who commit themselves to a good cause, and Mother Giselle soon proved to be a lady worthy of such respect. True to her words, she never left those who needed her, despite being caught in the middle of the vicious struggle between the two factions that has spread through all the Hinterlands. The apostates were mad, attacking anything that moves, and it appeared that the templars here weren’t following anyone’s orders any longer.

In the meantime, tales of the deeds of the Inquisition were spreading through all the territory. This new organization has been working to bring back peace to this beautiful land, and by now they tracked down the bases of the two factions, defeating them both. Also the presence of the demons in the woods unbelievingly decreased – it seems like that the so-called Herald of Andraste is actually capable to banish all the evil presences that manage to run from the Fade and reach this world through the tears in the Veil, closing such portals once and for all.

“Andraste herself sent her Herald to save us all, during these dark times.”

“The Herald is the most powerful hero Thedas ever had.”

“He has magical hands, they can heal the worst wounds with one touch, as much as the torn in the sky.”

“No, the Herald is a woman, and she’s seven feet tall, with the strength of a Qunari and the appearance of a queen.”

“I heard she has glowing red eyes, she can set the enemies on fire with one single glance.”

Yes, sure, healing hands and burning eyes – the warrior couldn’t help but chuckle at those rumors.

By his side, he kept doing his job, fighting for the families of farmers he swore to protect. Then, when the Inquisition managed to secure the Crossroads, leaving a troop of soldiers to guard the village, he accompanied them in there and left with the promise of coming back to make sure of their safety.

And now, there he is, in this small and decrepit cabin, tenting to the injury at his right shoulder, a gift from the Rage Demon he met while rescuing a young elf from the templars that were looking for her husband. He’s been careless during that encounter, and this is the retribution.

Maker’s balls, he has to keep in mind that he is a young lad no more.

* * *

“Those bandits? Again?”

Giles nods, “This time they robbed us blind.”

The Grey Warden looks at the old farmer in disbelief. Now that his shoulder is finally healed, he came back to the Crossroads, as he promised, just to find out that the people he protected with all his strength, have lost everything they possessed. Again.

He can clearly recall those bandits – they were just nuisance, threatening them during their trip along with the paths for tolls and such. They clearly feared him, so they never tried nothing while he was around.

“Guess the hole in the sky or you fighting demons spooked them,” Giles explains. “Made them want to stock up and run. Not sure why. Can’t exactly run from the sky.”

The veteran soldier clenches his fists with rage. This is all his fault, he should never have left their side. Yet, the closeness to the Inquisition agents made him restless and so he fled – once again, his cowardice endangered the others.

But he can fix it, and he will.

“My friends,” he loudly speaks out, gathering the attention of the farmers their eyes filled with expectations and hope. “I apologize for not being there to avoid this incident. Still, I can’t promise I’ll be always at your side, to protect you. I am a Grey Warden and I have my mission to accomplish.”

He turns his attention towards the younger members of the group. “Blights and demons are my job, but you have to learn to fight thieves like them by yourselves. You don’t want to spend your whole life relying only on strangers to assure your families the safety they deserve, do you? The day has come for you to become the heroes for your parents, for your wives, for your children.”

His words clearly hit the men on the right spot, firing them up. They start to acclaim the Warden, clapping their hands and crying out their assent.

“Hereby, by the power vested in me by the Grey Wardens as their recruiter, I conscript all of you in our ranks. I shall teach you how to fight, and together we’ll take back what those bandits stole!”

* * *

“The sword is not just a weapon. You have to view it like the extension of your own arm!” the Warden shouts at his conscripts that are training in front of his cabin.

They’re back at the Lake, getting ready for the fight with the bandits. If everything goes as planned, they’re going to be there soon, lured by the bait he cleverly arranged for them.

“Remember how to carry your shields! You’re not hiding, you’re holding. Otherwise it’s useless!”

Suddenly, a faint rustle warns him that someone is arriving. _Here they are._

As soon as he glances at the new comers, the air gets caught in his throat. Instead of the thieves he’s waiting for, a young female elf is walking towards him, accompanied by another man of her kind, a human wearing the armor of the Seekers of Truth, and a dwarf. Yet, all his attention is focused on the small woman: curly raven black hair, gathered in a long ponytail, that frames an unbelievably beautiful face, including scattered freckles, a perfect tiny nose, a pair of big emerald eyes and full rosy lips that are cut on the left by a vertical scar. Despite her delicate frame, her posture is confident and elegant, and there is something wild in her intense gaze, highlighted by her dark make-up and the strange tattoos on her cheekbones – is she an infamous Dalish? What does such stunning elf do in this place forgotten by the Maker?

By the way she’s staring right at him, he feels like she’s coming here for him. The thought simultaneously scares and thrills him to no ends.

_No, this is wrong. Get hold of yourself, old man, you have bandits to fight. If this woman is really here for you, you might be in trouble. A very big trouble indeed._

She is now a few steps far from him. “Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

_There it comes the trouble. Maker’s balls!_


	4. The meeting

**3\. The meeting**

_Hinterlands – Redcliffe farms._

Gwen Lavellan takes a long, deep breath, and immediately the warm air invades her lungs, making her moan contentedly.

Sun, trees and flowers – coming to the Hinterlands always boosts her mood. Growing up in a nomadic clan like hers, the young Dalish is accustomed to dealing with any kind of weather, but she can’t hide her annoyance to all the cold and the snow that covers Haven and its surroundings.

Now she’s taking advantage of the pause to lay down on the grass, right behind Master Dennet’s house, where Cassandra is discussing the horse trainer’s involvement with the Inquisition. This is exactly what she needs – a moment of peace and loneliness, away from all the madness that engulfed her lately. She can sense the burning rays of sunlight caressing her skin, hear the faint sound of leaves shaken by the breeze, smell the sweet scent of embrium in the air, and she tries to forget about the Conclave, the Breach, the Mark on her hand. There is just her, amidst the nature, like she used to be back when she was with her own people.

Actually, her life never has been simple. She was ‘the girl chosen by the Creators’, then the poor orphan of the great Calemiril Lavellan and her husband Thavron, and, after that, the Keeper’s first.

The Keeper.

Gwen scoffs thinking about what kind of her expression there’s been on her face when Leliana’s agents came to their clan, bringing gifts along with the news of her brand new title, the Herald of Andraste. Deshanna Istimaethoriel is known among the People for her open mind towards the other races and their cultures, yet, knowing that her apprentice and foster daughter has become a religious icon for the shems, must have been quite the shock for her.

Sighing, Lavellan pulls out a paper from one of her pockets and lifts it in front of her eyes.

_“Da’len,_

_Andaran atish’an._

_It does my heart well to hear that you are safe. Our clan was visited by members of the Inquisition who spoke persuasively of the good work you are doing, as well as the fairness with which our kind have been treated by the Inquisition itself._

_You know that Clan Lavellan has little by way of gold, but I gave the messengers some of our healing herbs, as Sylaise blessed us with abundance in our recent foraging. We would be a distraction if we came to the Inquisition itself, our hunters arguing with the humans as they so easily do. Nevertheless, if you need aid, send word, and we are with you._

_Dareth shiral,_

_Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan”_

Just a few lines. The Keeper never has been a woman of many words, but this letter is short even for her standards. She probably supposed that all the correspondence addressed to the Inquisition members has to pass through the Spy-master’s attentive examination before reaching them, so she didn’t want to risk saying anything personal. Still, her message is clear, and this is all that Gwen needs: _“we are with you, no matter what comes.”_

As soon as her agents were back from the Free Marches, Sister Nightingale told to the young Lavellan that she would make a carrier crow available to her for whenever she’d want to write back to her clan. But this happened days ago.

How could she manage to tell to Deshanna everything that happened to her through a simple letter?

These last weeks have been… intense, to put it lightly. Ever since the Inquisition was officially reborn, the so-called Herald started immediately to work with her new companions. They secured villages from the templars-apostates war, they arranged useful accords for their organization, they defeated a fair share of demons, her mark vital to closing the Fade rifts, as Solas predicted.

Working side by side with different races proved to be less hard than Gwen thought. When she left the Free Marches to go to the Conclave, she was terrified by the idea being alone, among all those hostiles. Instead, amazingly, even the shemlens are not the terrible pricks she feared – at least, not all of them. Still, she feels out of place between them, like she doesn’t belong here, nor anywhere else.

Other than the Hinterlands, they visited Val Royeaux, the shiny capital of the Orlesian Empire, but unfortunately things there didn’t go quite as planned. So now, the Herald and her companions are back here, at the Redcliffe farms, while the advisors are arguing about which ally they should choose between Lord Seeker Lucius’ templars or Grand Enchanter Fiona’s rebel mages.

Gwen puts Deshanna’s letter back in her pocket and takes the book that usually hangs from her belt – her own journal. She uses it to write useful recipes for potions and other stuff, annotations, reminders and occasional considerations. She sits straight and opens it on a page with a list of names and descriptions.

_‘Cassandra Pentaghast: shem, powerful warrior, righteous, brave, fascinating, devout, suspicious, grumpy._

_Solas: apostate elvhen mage, obsessed with the Fade, ~~too much~~ erudition, mysterious, ~~trustworthy??~~_

_Varric Tethras: dwarf rogue, member of the Dwarf Merchants Guild, storyteller, smart, cheeky, has a nice crossbow._

_Sister Nightingale Leliana: shem, bard, spymaster, ~~awfully~~ devout, ambiguous, friend of the Hero of Ferelden!!_

_Ambassador Josephine Montilyet: shem, ambassador, ~~extremely~~ friendly, determined, very clever, experienced in politics._

_Commander Cullen Rutherford: shem, ex-templar, capable military leader, ~~so~~ blonde, serious, clumsy._

_Scout Lance Harding: dwarf archer, skilled, straightforward, nice, ~~cute~~._

_Sera: elf archer, hater of the People??, scatterbrained, insolent, hot-headed, talks with an odd accent, eats a lot._

_Madame Vivienne de Fer: shem, Orlesian enchanter, sophisticate, reactionary, pompous, hypocritical?, ~~not trustworthy??’~~_

Lavellan is about to add something to the list, when Varric’ voice calls her. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re writing a book. With the Herald of Andraste as competitor, my novels wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“Of course not. I’m not a writer. These are just personal notes,” she replies readily. But the dwarf says nothing, just stares down at her, grinning.

After a moment of confusion, the woman comes to a conclusion. “That was a joke, was it not?”

He nods. “I’m not going to give up on you, elf. It seems like your kind doesn’t develop what we call ‘sense of spirit’, but I managed to teach something of it to Broody and Daisy. May the Maker turn me into a stone nug if I won’t succeed in this task with you as well!”

The Dalish shrugs as she stands up on her feet, making a mental note about adding ‘stubborn’ at Mr Tethras’ line in her journal.

“Besides, my novels are the best on the market, I’m not afraid of competitors.” Varric affirms, winking at her. “We have to go now, lady Herald. We might have a track about that Warden we are looking for. It seems like that someone at the Crossroads might know him.”

* * *

This is not what Gwen expected, not at all.

When Leliana asked her to look for Warden Blackwall, for the very first time ever since her ‘new life’ started, the excitement almost overwhelmed her. Her lifetime dream was going to become true: to meet a member of the legendary order of darkspawn slayers, the Grey Wardens.

After gathering some information from the old farmer Giles at the Crossroads, the Herald together with Cassandra, Solas and Varric reached Lake Luthias. What they found there was a bunch of lads training with swords and shields, overlooked by a tall and bulky man, wearing a helmet and a stuffed gambeson with a chestplate, all decorated with griffons with open wings.

Lavellan’s enthusiasm disappeared at once when she saw him rushing towards her, shouting menacingly. _Great, another rude shem that–_

She stopped dead on her tracks when she found herself a breath away from an arrow addressed to her skull – the warrior blocked it without a peek at its source, using his shield like it was the extension of his arm.

“That’s it. Help or get out,” he said. “We’re dealing with these idiots first!”

And this is what they just did – together they got rid of them quickly, even if Gwen was still amazed, and somehow enthralled, by the Warden’s moves. His fighting style is impeccable, with very powerful yet perfectly aimed hits. He proved to have an amazing strength but also a great control of the battlefield: even in such a small skirmish, his talent in gathering the focus of all the enemies on himself, allowing his allies to do massive damage without being interrupted or hit, was remarkable.

The Dalish had already been very impressed by Cassandra’s abilities, even though she’s more aggressive. Warden Blackwall… well, he looks like a skilled veteran soldier who has seen quite his share of battles, his defense stance suggesting he has always been on the front line.

“You’re no farmer. Why do you know my name?”

The man’s voice, a deep and wonderfully warm voice, calls Lavellan back to reality. She has not realized that Blackwall has already dismissed the lads after giving them an inspirational speech, and he’s now talking to her, again. With his helmet now resting on the grass nearby his weapon, the elf is finally able to look at his face: he is a very attractive man, in his late thirties or perhaps in his early forties, with long and messy brown hair, a pair of thick eyebrows over weary but bright blue eyes, an elegant prominent nose, high pronounced cheekbones and thin lips that are barely visible under the most peculiar moustaches and beard she ever happened to see in her life.

“Who are you?” he asks to her.

 _That’s a good question, shem_ , she thinks, far less than amused. She’s been called a lot of things by a lot of people, and she often finds herself wondering about who is she, for real?

“That depends on who you ask,” she replies with a bitter laugh.

“Well, I’m talking to you. Stop dancing.” Once again his harshness unsettles her, but, thankfully, Seeker Pentaghast intervenes. “We’re Inquisition, trying to find out why the Wardens disappeared and if it had anything to do with the Divine’s murder.”

At this affirmation, Blackwall gulps surprised. “Maker’s balls, the Wardens and the Divine?”

He starts to explain how Grey Wardens are typically forgotten after a Blight ends, and that he doesn’t know why or where the others have disappeared – his job is to recruit on his own, staying away for months, years. And while Cassandra inquires him about his order, his intense eyes bore straight into Gwen’s, mesmerizing her.

Why is he looking at her? It’s not because of her pointy ears or her vallaslins, that she can tell for sure. Shemlens usually stare at her suspiciously, annoyed or even scared ( _Beware, the dangerous wild Dalish!_ ). Or, if they know her as the Herald of Andraste, their stance changes into brainless worshippers.

No, this warrior’s gaze is different, yet Lavellan can’t possibly read his intentions, his expression incomprehensible. The man himself is unfathomable: one moment he looks like the ruthless criminals the tales of the Grey Wardens tell of, then, suddenly, he turns into a impeccable knight defender.

“Grey Wardens can inspire, make you better than you think you are.” He states solemnly, and Gwen can’t help but wonder: _So, who are you, Warden?_

Her blood boils with excitement at the thought of the two of them actually sharing the same uncertain fate, though soon she realizes that they won’t find out any answer together, because the Seeker just finished her fruitless interrogation and she’s taking her leaves.

Fenedhis, why does she feel such great disappointment at the idea of leaving this man for good? He’s just a blasted handsome shem, she should not mind about him at all. Still, those hypnotizing blue eyes are hard to resist, and when she finally manages to break the contact and turn away, his voice calls her back.

“Inquisition… agent, did you say? Hold a moment.” He’s now in front of her, his huge frame towering her. “The Divine is dead, and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved. If you’re trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.”

They’re just a few inches apart, and Lavellan swallows hard, shocked. _By the Dread Wolf, what is happening to me?_

Trying to buy time to calm herself, she pulls out her most professional tone. “The Inquisition needs all the support it can get, but what can one Grey Warden do?”

Finally, Blackwall’s lips curve into a smirk. “Save the fucking world, if pressed.” He chuckles. “Look, maybe fighting demons from the sky isn’t something I’m practiced at, but show me someone who is. And like I said, there are treaties. Maybe this isn’t a Blight, but it’s bloody well a disaster. Some will honor them. Being a Warden means something to a lot of people.”

Heart in her mouth, Gwen doesn’t look towards Cassandra, waiting for her approval, like she always does when someone wants to join their forces. “Warden Blackwall, the Inquisition accepts your offer.”

“Good to hear. We both need to know what’s going on, and perhaps I’ve been keeping to myself for too long. This Warden walks with the Inquisition.” And, with this, his smirk turns into a full, warm, smile that makes the poor Dalish melt.

“Andaran atish’an, Blackwall.”


	5. Haven

**4\. Haven**

Maker’s balls, what did he do?

Just a few days ago he was safe, alone in the wilderness of Ferelden, and now he’s at Haven, the headquarters of the Inquisition, that is rapidly becoming one of the most important forces of the whole Thedas.

Has he gone completely nuts?

_Yes, probably._

Blackwall goes out the little cabin nearby the blacksmith, after he unpacked his small bag. He asked for a place outside the center of the village, somewhere isolated from the crowd, and he ended up sharing this place with Master Harrit and his apprentices. It seems quite a noisy location, but he doesn’t mind it, on the contrary, he actually enjoys the change from the solemn silence of the nature.

Still, this is a bad idea.

_A very bad idea._

All those years traveling alone, keeping a low profile, doing his best to protect people like any other Grey Warden would do… and now he’s risking everything he did, for what?

Helping others?

He was already doing it, no need to change his plans.

Honor the order?

That’s bullshit, even if that is what he told them.

Avenge the Divine?

Vengeance does no good, he knows it too well.

Then why?

The warrior shakes his head, disappointed by the lack of exhaustive answers, and has a look around him. Those who survived the explosion at the Conclave did a good work in patching up things in there, turning what used to be a pilgrim’s refuge into a war camp. Yet, after all the weeks he spent in the Hinterlands, listening to the praises for the new Inquisition –  the last chance to save the Thedas, as they said – he couldn’t help but feel disappointed when he got there and found this small settlement.

Suddenly, the massive hole in the sky above where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been grabs his attention.

“Maker,” he mutters, shocked. “Look at it.”

“That’s the infamous Breach.” A melodious female voice makes him startle slightly.

Blackwall turns towards the newcomer and his heart skips a beat: Gwen Lavellan is standing in front of him, a hint of smile on her rosy lips. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” he nods. “It’s so much easier to ignore when it’s far away. And to actually walk out of it, to be that close…”

“It’s right there. We could take a trip, if you’re that curious.”

Blackwall’s first impulse is to laugh, but Gwen’s expression is oddly serious. Then he recalls listening to Varric, the dwarf, muttering something about boring elves and their inability to understand or even make jokes – so yes, she actually means it.

“My apologies, but I’m going to have to decline… at least until I learn more about it.”

“As you wish.” She shrugs. “Besides, we might be able to close it soon, if we’ll find enough allies between the templars or the mages.”

_We._

The man still has to get accustomed to the fact that he is part of this Inquisition as well. Everything happened in a rush back at Lake Luthias – all he knows that his mouth talked of its own volition, and somehow he found himself on a horse, following them for good.

Now, he looks at this tiny woman in front of him, that is not only a very powerful mage, but also the blessed Herald of Andraste, and he remembers all the stories he heard about the Dalish people and their mistrust towards other races, humans most of all. Not to mention all the amazing acts of bravery Lavellan did to help the peasants in the Hinterlands. At her side, he is overwhelmed by a sense of terrible helplessness – how should he behave around her?

Blackwall clears his throat. “I have to admit, I’d never thought you’d be…”

After he trails off, Gwen readily suggests, “A woman?”

“Yes– I mean no. What I meant is that I’d thought you were…”

“Human?” she prompts again.

“Yes.”

At his confirmation, Lavellan scowls. “Is that a problem? Do you object to my kind?”

“Oh Maker, no!” Andraste’s flaming knickers, he is such a blasted fool. “Of course not. Didn’t meant to offend. It’s just… I got the wrong impression from the rumors that spread after your arrival at Crossroads. I’m sorry, I know it’s very silly, especially thinking about the nature of those rumors.”

She raises a brow, intrigued. “Such as?”

“Something about you being extremely tall and muscular, with red burning eyes and healing hands.”

“Silly indeed. Although,” she adds, her gaze getting lost on the horizon as she clenches her left fist. “The healing hands thing is not that far from the truth.”

Her Mark.

On their way towards Haven, together with Master Dennet and his herd of horses, they stumbled upon a bunch of wraiths nearby one of those greenish portals Blackwall already saw when he was protecting those farmers. After they have fought them off – very easily, to the veteran soldier’s dismay – the Dalish stepped in front of the rift, as they call it. She stood straight, with her legs spread. Her chest was out. Her shoulders were back. Her head looked up. As she lifted her left arm, her palm started to glow, channeling a ray of energy from the portal. Just a bunch of seconds and it was gone, exploding in a burst of green sparks.

Blackwall stared at Gwen agape, finally understanding why she’s been called the Herald of Andraste. But what hit him most was the pain written on her face as she shook her hand, the glowing disappearing. It lasted a heartbeat, yet he managed to notice it, before she artfully hid it, putting on her cold professional expression. The same she’s now wearing while an awkward silence falls upon them.

“Lady Lavellan, please, forgive me. Years on my own, dealing with bandits and darkspawn, and I completely lost my manners. For me, races never mattered, not at all. There is no big deal in being shorter, or having horns, or whatever. It’s what you do, and how you do it, that’s important.”

No answer comes from the young elf, whose brows are knitted together in a thoughtful scowl. She looks like she’s trying to figure out if she should believe his words… or just get pissed at him. After an endless moment, it seems like she chooses the first option because she relaxes and her full lips turn into a shy smile. Actually, it’s barely a smirk, yet it’s enough to turn the warrior’s legs into pudding.

_Maker’s balls, what’s happening to you, dirty bugger?_

Obvious to the internal struggling that is consuming him, the Herald restarts to speak. “What do you think of the Inquisition, Warden Blackwall?”

_Right, this is it. You’re here as a Grey Warden, start acting like one._

He crosses his arms on his chest, trying to assume a composed posture. “To be honest, I expected more. More men, better equipment… You may have Andraste’s favor, but wars are won by men. Soldiers.”

“Wars are won in many ways,” she smartly replies. “Brute force is not always the answer. There are plenty of other paths to victory.”

Well, she’s got a point – a very good one indeed. “True enough.” He chuckles. “Still, it never hurts to be prepared. One thing I will say about your men: they’re passionate.”

His surprise when he found out that this tiny Dalish was the praised Herald of Andraste was not based over racial prejudices, of course. Being a man who traveled a lot, dealt with almost any kind of people, he is well aware of how poorly elves are considered by peasants. Yet, somehow Lady Lavellan managed to gain their respect and trust, other than their blind devotion and absolute commitment to their case.

Blackwall observed her almost all the time during their journey from the Hinterlands. She doesn’t talk very much, her expression always severe and a bit frowny, her beautiful green eyes very alert and concentrated. She seems to be some kind of loner huntress, always aware of her surroundings, ready to jump at any sign of danger – she probably was one, back when she was with her clan. Still, despite her apparent cold and aloof behavior, she never misses a chance to comfort the helpless or spur the insecure, with a kind word or a simple soothing gesture.

“You inspire people. Build on that foundation, and you will have an army that makes nations tremble.”

Gwen heaves a sigh, her attention focused on her left fist. “But I want no army. I have no right to have one. I am not a leader, not a commander. I am just an elf with a magical glowing hand.”

She’s far more than just that, and her furrowed brows tell to the veteran soldier that she is aware of it as well. “Just one question, then. How do you think you fit in with all this?”

Lavellan raises her head to stare back at him. “I just want peace. I want to help stop the war, try to put things back in order.”

Blackwall nods with approval. “A worthy goal, one I’m happy to– support.” He trails off as he notices the intensity of the Herald’s gaze on him, and suddenly the oh-so-craved answer to the question he keeps asking himself ever since he left that cabin at the Lake is bright clear in his mind.

He is here because of _her_.

Yes, they’re all here because of the Herald, whether it’s because they’re willing to help her close the Breach and save the world or because they really believe she’s Andraste’s chosen or just because they’re charmed by her – it doesn’t really matter. But he didn’t even know who she really was when he asked her to join her forces.

All he knew was that, as those two shiny emerald eyes locked into his for the first time, everything around him stopped and he was completely enraptured by her. It was like she was trying to read the very depths of his soul, going past all his barriers, his deceptions, his masks, to reach his true self. And even if the idea of someone managing to do that terrified him, he found himself unable to resist her scrutiny – he didn’t _want_ to resist it. It was madness, but he had the feeling that with her guidance, he could achieve his purpose: becoming a better man.

So, when she broke the contact and turned around to leave him, he was lost, helpless. It has been just a matter of seconds, but he knew that that was his only real chance, and he couldn’t let it slip away from his hands. He _had_ to follow her, anywhere she wanted him to.

And Maker, he was right. Despite his worries about being in close contact with all these people and what problems it could possibly cause to him, he is glad to be here. As part of the Inquisition, he can really do good things, important things, things that matter for the others, especially for her.

Because this is it, he wants to be here for _her_.

Just being near her makes him feel at peace, like he never felt in ages.

_Maker’s balls!_

Still shocked by this discovery, soon he realizes that Gwen is still there, glancing at him with a questioning look on her face. No, he can’t tell her the truth, he can’t tell her that he is ready to throw away everything he worked for just because of her.

Right, stick to the original plan. “For me, I’ll be satisfied so long as we find the bastards that killed the Divine. They owe us some answers.”

“And I am grateful for it. We are very lucky to have you here, Warden Blackwall.” She replies, and then, for the very first time, she gives him a full warm smile, that kind of smile that could melt all the snow around them.

The man swallows hard, his heart beating fast than ever.

_It’s just devotion, that’s it. Don’t you dare to think about something else, you old wretch._

“The pleasure is mine, my lady.”

At his last words, Lavellan startles and her cheeks turn into a darker shade of their usual pink – is she blushing? No, it can’t be.

Maker, he really is in trouble, isn’t he?


	6. Interlude I

**5\. Interlude I**

**_Varric_ **

_The Tale of the Herald_

Here we are again, my dear reader.

Another place.

Another protagonist.

Another story.

Apparently, our world is constantly in need of protection, and, when Thedas calls, a new hero rises to save us all.

The Hero of Ferelden. The Champion of Kirkwall. And now, the Herald of Andraste.

I myself didn’t have the pleasure to meet the beloved Queen Cousland, but, according to the words of one of her dearest and closest friends, I know that she is an extraordinary woman, and was exactly what Ferelden required during the Blight. _[** Still trying to convince Leliana to give me enough information to write a book about Alice Cousland as well, but the shady Sister is hard to convince - maybe I should try to retrieve one of those rare purple nugs from the Anderfels for her.]_

And Hawke… well, I wrote a copious amount of words about her, and even though I still have plenty of unreleased juicy anecdotes, but this is not the time or place for them. _[** I have to find a way to narrate that one time when Darcy managed to burn down Fenris’- wait, maybe I should not.]_

This new book is intended to tell the tale of Lady Lavellan and her quest to close the Breach in the sky. Honestly, I have no idea about if and how this story will develop and end, yet, ever since the first time I met the young elf, I knew I had to write it, to spread the truth about what will happen from now on.

I am aware that the rampant news and rumors relating to the Herald of Andraste are totally shocking. Amidst the chaos within the ranks of the Chantry, there is a growing voice that talks about discontent and skepticism because, not only is she one of the infamous Dalish people, but also an apostate mage. _[** Let’s dismiss the lingering accusation of being the one who caused the Divine’s death – at least for now I guess.]_

Still, one thing I can tell you for sure, my faithful reader: Gwen Lavellan is unlike any other elf I ever met, Dalish or not. _[** Except for her tenuous understanding of humor and difficulty recognizing irony and sarcasm. Thank the Maker I met a playful elf such as Sera, because otherwise I’d have given up any hope on them, nug shit!]_

Despite her young age, _[** She is 20 something right? Need to investigate it.]_ she is very mature and determined, self-reliant and smart. Her beautiful freckled face, though, is always clouded by a serious frown - it seems like she ponders and worries over every situation.

She doesn’t have any of the naivety and carefreeness of others her age, especially of the ones that lived in the freedom of the wilderness like all the Dalish do. _[** Come on, even Merrill, despite blood magic and all, was much much cheerful than her.]_

Yes, the fact that she has the fate of the whole Thedas hanging on her shoulder might be enough to put off any other person, but I bet there is more to it.

I’ve been observing her attentively from weeks by now, and I understood that hidden behind her flawless mannerism that is often mistaken for coldness, the Herald is actually very passionate, and she struggles to do always the right thing, precisely as my friend Hawke does.

Still, unlike the Champion, Lady Lavellan only lets rationality guide her, when sometimes she should follow her heart instead. It is clear that, for her, justice is above all, and there is no other option. _[** Great, like I didn’t already have to deal with Justice for years!]_

If there is one thing I learned from Darcy Hawke, it’s that the individual you really are is forged by your innate self as much as by what you experience and who you meet throughout the journey that is your life.

Perhaps, during her time as the Herald of Andraste, Gwen Lavellan will learn that not everything is white and black, and she’ll start to see the different shades of grey, but this might cost her a great deal.

And, perhaps, as it happened for Hawke and Fenris, Lavellan’s story will end up involving a brave ~~Grey Warden~~ knight in shiny armor as well? _[** Did I just called also Fenris “a brave knight in shiny armor”? He will kill me if he finds it out. But hey- What’s up with kind-hearted women falling for broody men? I’ll never know it! Yet, all my bets are on the bearded warden, and I rarely make mistakes when it comes to such matters.]_

We shall see together, my loyal reader.

\------

_[**] Varric’s personal notes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! =)
> 
> I decided to organize my fic like this: each four chapters from Gwen and Blackwall’s pov alternated, then one from a different character’s pov (it might be a dialogue, a letter, a page of a journal…) and so on.
> 
> This chapter is from Varric’s pov… who knows if he will actually write this book! ;)
> 
> Once again I want to thank my friends **Saraportela** , **Kaidansbioticapprentice** and **Galtori** for their essential help with this work. You’re the best sweeties! ♥
> 
> And I want to thank you all that are reading, liking and following my fic… I’d love to know your opinion about it as the story goes on, so please don’t be shy! ♥


	7. The Storm Coast

**6\. The Storm Coast**

Rain.

It’s raining… all the damn time.

The Storm Coast, a well-deserved name indeed.

They got there just a few hours ago, and Gwen already can’t wait to go back to Haven. But they have several issues to deal with in here, so, unfortunately, this is not going to happen very soon.

Fenhedis, she really does hate rain.

As a mage proficient in lightning spells, storms are a bloody nightmare for her. The Dalish trained hard since her magic showed up to dominate it, and she was damn good at it. Now, thanks to the blasted mark on her left hand, that throws her off balance, she has to struggle a great deal to control her powers because they threaten to burst out wild, risking to damage her surroundings, or, worse, her companions.

For these reasons, she walks behind the rest of the group, keeping some distance for their safety. From time to time, she takes a long, deep breath and she clenches her fists, releasing a small amount of energy towards the ground. Creators, when they’ll be back at their base, she definitely could use some new exercises to regain her focus.

Still, there’s more to her hatred towards the rain: it brings back sorrowful memories, and she can’t afford to be sad – not now, not ever. She has an important task to accomplish, in the role she so reluctantly assumed.

Apparently, though, Lavellan is the only one who’s struggling with the reality that she’s the Herald of Andraste. The more the Inquisition strengthens, the more people bow at her very feet as soon as they see her. Even Seeker Cassandra seems to finally trust her completely, given that she sent her on this mission without her supervision for the first time. Thus here she is, in this Gods-forsaken place, looking for a band of mercenaries for the Inquisition to hire – do they have enough money to pay them?

“So it was just you, alone in the vast wilderness?” Gwen’s attention turns on her companions strolling in front of her, noticing that Varric has just approached Warden Blackwall.

“What are you about?” the bearded warrior questions the dwarf.

“The lone wanderer, searching the world. What’s he trying to find? Love? Absolution?”

The Warden sighs. “Try ‘someone with a strong arm and stronger will to fight darkspawn’.”

“Yes, but what does that represent?”

“Wanting to kill more darkspawn.”

“You’re just like Sebastian.” Varric scoffs.

Lavellan recognizes the frustration in the writer’s voice, because it’s the same feeling she has every time she talks to Blackwall.

Ever since she was a child, the elf sought knowledge about the Grey Wardens, the fighters devoted to the task of defeating the filthy darkspawn she hated so much. She took advantage of all the chances she had to gather information about the order, be it from senior members of her clan or wandering vagrants she met during their trips. What she learned left her really intrigued and somehow admired: tales of dangerous criminals and ruthless men, that would give up their old lives to fight the evil that used to plague the whole Thedas from centuries ago. Despite their threatening behaviors and the bad things they could have done in the past, given a second chance, they would choose to use it to save and protect the others, redeeming themselves until death would claim them.

Then, a couple of years after the end of the Fifth Blight, clan Lavellan met clan Zathrian in the Free Marches. As the First of Keeper Deshanna, Gwen had several chances to speak with their own Keeper, Lanaya, and ask her about the woman better known as the Hero of Ferelden, Alice Cousland, and her companion Alistair. Those warriors, the last two Grey Wardens of Ferelden still alive at the time, bravely fought to free Lanaya’s people from the Keeper Zathrian’s curse, along with a wise human healer and a witty and seductive (according to her words) antivan assassin. Oddly, the image she pictured of those Wardens was completely different from what Lavellan gathered until that moment: they were both charming and righteous, and while they were dealing with the werewolves problem, they also proffer respect towards their Gods listening to their legends, and they took care of sick hallas, mourning widowers and young heartbroken boys. They were like real-life prince and princess from shemlen childhood tales, being Alice a beautiful young noble lady with long blond curls and warm golden eyes, and Alistair a handsome ex-templar and royal bastard with short coppery hair and kind hazel gaze. And, exactly like it happens in such tales, they saved the world and got married, becoming King and Queen of Ferelden.

For a long time, Gwen obsessed over the one question: who are the Grey Wardens? Fierce delinquents or virtuous champions of justice?

When she finally ran into one of them, she was determined to find the so-longed answer. Yet, her meeting with Warden Blackwall was nothing like she predicted it.

He had joined their forces weeks ago, and regardless of the fact that the young mage takes advantage of any free moment to go and chat with him, she still couldn’t figure out what kind of person he really is. Instead of finding clarification, all Lavellan gets is more confusion, because he smartly handles her curiosity, giving her baffling replies.

_“Ah, do you want to talk about the Wardens? I’m afraid we’re less exciting than we seem.”_

She is aware that the order is very secretive, but she knows there is more to it.

_“Do you want to hear more about me? Compared to yours, my life will seem dull indeed.”_

Blackwall clearly has a shady past, one he is not willing to share with the others. This knowledge, though, instead of unsettling the Dalish, eggs her further on.

* * *

_“Yes, many Wardens were once criminals. And when you join, your past is forgotten, so let’s have it that way.”_

_Gwen is sitting on a box outside the blacksmith, while the bearded man has his back leaned on the wooden wall of the small cabin nearby. His posture is rigid, his arms crossed over his chest, but despite his reluctance in answering to her question, there is no hint of annoyance on his face._

_“However, you weren’t always a Warden. What did you do before you became one?”_

_He takes a deep breath. “I was… a soldier, a nobody trained to wield a sword and follow orders. I grew weary of fighting other men’s wars.”_

_“So, you became a Warden.”_

_“More or less.” He nods. “Becoming a Grey Warden… it was the first time I felt like I mattered. The life I led before seems hollow in comparison. Perhaps one day it will fade away.”_

_A peaceful silence falls on them, only the clanging of the hammers hitting the anvil at their back reminds them they’re not alone in the world. Lavellan can’t stop staring at the fascinating shem in front of her, the tortured look in his eyes suggesting that there are so many things hidden behind his ambiguous words. A part of her is afraid that soon he will push her away, still, on the other hand, she can’t help but feel intrigued by him, wanting nothing more than to know him – his real self._

_“Why did you join the order?”_

_Blackwall gives her a nervous smirk, aware that she won’t give up on him easily. “Because the Wardens remember honor and sacrifice, words that have little meaning to the rest of us. Because they lay down their lives for those they have sworn to protect. We all need to believe there are such men in the world. I needed to believe I could be one of them.”_

_There is sadness in his voice when he makes such declaration, and yet it sounds so true, so right._

_He already proved to be a great fighter, a powerful and capable warrior, his attention always focused on defending his companions from the enemy’s blows. He looked after all those farmers for weeks after the incident at the Conclave, saving their lives countless times. Also, regardless of his claims of being a loner, he is as agreeable during their trips as he is here in Haven._

_Does his past really matter? No, not at all._

_Like he himself told her days ago,_ “it’s what you do, and how you do it, that’s important”.

* * *

For better or for worse, Gwen is not the only one who likes spending time with the Warden: Cassandra and Cullen often ask him to spar, while Sera, Varric and even Solas spend their evenings with him at the tavern, playing cards and drinking ale.

In particular, Blackwall bonded quickly with the spitfire blonde archer, probably too much for Lavellan’s liking, given how the two elves don’t get along well together. She tried, the Creators know she did try to find a way to communicate with Sera, but it didn’t work at all. All she got were headaches, raspberries and mocking words from her – _“Yuck, you’re_ so _elfy!”_

And now, the dwarven author seems to be interested in his past as well – is he really writing that book about the Inquisition he mentioned her earlier?

“Excuse me? Sebastian?” Blackwall asks, amazed.

“Yeah. You remind me of someone. Pious bastard, wore blinding white armor,” Varric says. “Told me my shots veered left.”

“I can see how that describes me perfectly.”

“It’s just… all that niceness. He was just so… nice.”

“Nice. Right. I take it you didn’t like this person.”

“Well… Sebastian would’ve taken that as a compliment. Maybe you’re not that boring, after all.”

Gwen gives a shy giggle, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the two men, that immediately turn towards her.

“I can’t believe it!” Varric exclaims, raising his arms over his head in a shocked gesture. “The Herald just chuckled! Alert the Chantry!”

“Why would the Chantry be interested in something like that?” she replies, confused.

The dwarf shakes his head and puffs defeated. “I give up on both of you, at least for today. Talking to you, the inscrutable hero and the stern elf, is exhausting. Solas, wait!” And with that, he rushes forward to reach the other mage.

“Creators, I’m not sure if I’ll ever understand him, or… rather if I _want_ to.” Lavellan mutters.

Blackwall bursts into laughter, and her heart jumps inside her chest. She doesn’t know why, but his warm, rich tone affects her deeply, coiling heat inside her. His voice itself is like a caress to her ears, as much as his Marcher accent. She lived almost all her life in the Free Marches, yet she doesn’t remember hearing anyone with such sexy inflect–

Has she really just thought about a shem as “sexy”?

Yes, she has, because of his accent. However, it is not just that, to be quite honest.

Warden Blackwall is indeed definitely different from the kind of man the Dalish is accustomed to, being so tall and bulky, and with that impressive beard – she knew about shemlens and facial hair, but she had no idea they could grow such impressive amount of it. Still, she finds him extremely handsome, and from the looks he unconsciously earns from the other females in Haven, she’s not the only one.

“My lady? Is everything all right?” his alarmed question, stirs Gwen from her meditations, and she realizes she stopped in the middle of the road, staring intently at him.

Feeling her cheeks blushing wildly, she tries to regain her composure as she resumes her walk. “Of course I am. Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

While they were traveling to reach the Storm Coast, she noticed that the warrior’s expression got tense the closer they got to their destination, and the troubled scowl hardly disappeared from his face since then. She suspects he dislikes this place as much as she does, but it’s odd, given that he is here by his own choice.

_“I’ve heard rumors of abandoned Warden camps all over these parts. If we have time, I’d like to take a look. See if there’s anything we can salvage.”_

She has been more than happy to comply his request, even though she’d probably pick him for the mission anyway. Was it a mistake?

“What, me? I’m fine, my lady. Just– thoughts, I guess. Nothing to worry about.”

They proceed silently side by side for some time, the rain violently hitting their armor. Slowly, all the stress Lavellan accumulated over her powers vanishes: Blackwall’s presence helps her relax.

All of sudden, he speaks again. “Thank you.”

Gwen suppresses a surprised gasp. “Why are you…?”

When their eyes meet, a delighted shiver goes down her spine: his frown has disappeared, replaced by a sweet smile. “You are always so kind to me,” he answers. “I have to say, you’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”

She swallows hard, trying to dominate her heart beating madly.

“My lady, I’m flattered you’d spend any time with me. I… enjoy your company.”

_Creators… What in Mythal’s name is happening to me?_


	8. Rise

**7\. Rise**

_Haven – Tavern._

Blackwall stares at Varric while he drinks a shot of his dwarven ale. “So… You think they’re right? Alexius is setting a trap for us?”

“I’m sure he is. Everything about that magister practically screamed ‘I’m setting a trap!’.”

Yes, that’s true.

The two of them, together with the Herald and Cassandra, had just come back from Redcliffe, where they were supposed to meet Grand Enchanter Fiona and talk about the possibility of her rebel mages helping them to close the Breach. Instead, what they found there was a town completely under the menacing control of a Tevinter magister.

The warrior doesn’t have first-hand experience with people from the Imperium, though he knows quite enough about them to be worried about the fate of the subdued Fereldian mages. And, clearly, he is not alone in this, given that Lady Lavellan is locked up in the war room together with the Seeker and the advisors ever since they stepped into Haven.

“The situation is grim,” the dwarf says. “How many hours they’ve been there, in the Chantry, by now, discussing? I bet that Cullen is going out mad, trying to convince the others that looking for the mages’ help was a mistake.”

“But we can’t just leave them at the mercy of Alexius for good!”

“I know that, Hero. Still, don’t forget that our final goal is to seal that Maker-forsaken hole in the sky. And, according to Curly, his templar pals could help us just fine as well. Never mind that he was not in Val Royeaux with us to attend the meeting with Lord nug-face Lucius. Honestly, both him and the Tevinter guy are definitely not worthy of any trust.”

“Maker’s balls, what a mess.” Blackwall grabs his own mug and takes a long sip. Templars, mages – they all mean trouble for them, no matter what.

Yet, it is the Inquisition’s task to bring peace and order all around Thedas, isn’t it? They can’t leave those poor souls in the hands of that creepy Magister, the Herald would never do that – he knows it for sure. He saw the concern in her bright eyes when they talked to those people, he heard her resolved tone when she faced Alexius; she is a kind-hearted woman with a strong sense of justice, she won’t give up on them until they’ll be free.

Another gulp of ale, then Varric continues. “And what about that other lad, Ser Moustache? How are we supposed to believe a man who claims to be the Magister’s ex-apprentice and wants to betray him?”

“Yeah, that one too.”

Dorian Pavus, the other Tevinter mage that lured them inside the Chantry to tell them about his mentor’s crazy plan – ally or foe?

 _“Alexius_ was _my mentor. Meaning he’s not any longer, not for some time. Look, you must know there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”_

Distorting time? Is that even possible?

“Hero, there is one thing I can tell you, though. Something about this story isn’t right. I was there in that blasted Orlesian marketplace, when Enchanter Fiona reached for Lavellan and requested her presence in the town to talk about the rebellion. And then, what happened? Did she just forget about it?”

“According to Pavus’ words, that meeting never occurred,” the human affirms.

“A magic spell to modify time? Come on, really? This is some heavy bronto shit, I tell you that.”

Blackwall is torn, for he wants to agree with his companion, but he witnessed how that rift they closed in front of the city gates acted, speeding some things up and slowing others down – that was odd, to put it lightly.

“What concerns me most, are those ‘Venatori’ Felix talked about. If they are behind those rifts, or the Breach in the sky, and they are really obsessed with our Herald, we must stop them as soon as possible.”

“Ah! Like we also needed to deal with a cult of Tevinter supremacists.” Varric slams his empty tankard on the table. “Andraste’s dimpled butt-cheeks, if only Hawke was there– no, wait, it’s better that way. Otherwise Fenris would have set the whole town on fire to get to them, no doubt about that.”

The veteran soldier laughs as the other gestures the barmaid asking for more ale. Hearing about the Champion and her turbulent lover from the writer is always amusing – all the friends he had to leave behind in Kirkwall seem to be quite the characters.

Out of the blue, silence falls upon the place. No more chats, no more laughs, no more music, no more noise of food being eaten and beer being drunk – just silence.

Blackwall moves around to glance at the open door of the tavern, and he immediately understands the reason behind the reverential stillness: Gwen Lavellan is on the threshold, her gaze wandering around the tables, looking for someone.

It doesn’t take too long for her to realize that all the eyes are now fixed on her, and despite her effort to hide her embarrassment, her cheeks begins to redden.

Readily, the bearded man stands and raises a hand to call her, but someone else beats him to the punch.

“Hey boss! Here!”

The Iron Bull, the qunari fighter they hired at the Storm Coast, is gesturing to the Dalish from the other side of the room, pointing to an empty bench beside one of the men of his mercenary group. She hastily follows his leads, trying to ignore all the curious murmurs following her, and by the time she’s sitting at that table, the cozy noise that usual floods this place is back like nothing happened.

“The Herald in the tavern? Ah! That was something I really wanted to see!” Varric utters.

None of them ever had the pleasure to meet her here as well – for all Blackwall knows, she never set a foot inside this building. And now, here she is, drinking and chatting with the Charges. She looks tired, exhausted – the reunion with the advisors must have been tough. And yet, somehow she found the strength to come here and spend some of her time with those men: that’s very kind of her. Even though Lavellan, more than anyone else, definitely deserves an evening off, the veteran soldier can’t help but feel a bit envious that she chose to do it with Bull instead of him– _them_.

Like he’s reading his mind, Varric pats on his shoulder. “Hero, come on. Stop brooding and let’s join them.”

Startled, he turns towards his dwarf companion. “What? No, we shouldn’t–”

Again, the qunari’s loud voice interrupts him. “Hey Varric! Blackwall! Come here guys!”

“See?” the writer winks at him as he gets up to approach the other table.

The human hesitates for a moment – he doesn’t want to intrude into their conversation. Then, his eyes come across a pair of shiny emeralds facing him: the Herald is staring at him with expectation, her left hand leaned on the free space of the bench where she is seated. On their own volition, his feet move and he is in front of her.

“Warden Blackwall,” Gwen greets him, tipping her head forward and scooting to the side, allowing him to sit next to her – Maker help him, they’re really close now, he can almost smell her scent.

“My lady.” His tone comes out huskier than he intended, and it causes her to avert her gaze, embarrassed – is she blushing?

“I had no idea that a qunari was needed to bring you in this tavern at last, Lady Herald!” Varric teases her.

Lavellan frowns, confused. “What does that mean?”

“Well, we never had the pleasure to have you here before.”

“You never asked.” She answers promptly, like it is the most obvious thing ever, leaving the writer puzzled and speechless. “Bull did.”

Blackwall stifles a laugh at Varric, once more defeated by Gwen’s concise personality, while the qunari smacks him on the shoulder, so enthusiastically that the dwarf almost knocks his face down into his tankard. “Ahahah! That’s me, the Iron Bull, always ready to resolve the situation! I am a helper!”

“Bronto piss! You’re rather a danger,” the poor Varric curses, as he dries the ale that spilled on his face because of the mercenary’s force. “You’ll never know it, with you qunari people.”

The folks at the table burst into laughter and soon they’re all involved in lively discussions – all but the Herald, who politely drinks from her mug silently, and Blackwall, whose attention is all focused on her.

Time passes, and the two of them just stay there, enjoying each other’s company without saying a word, only the noises of the tavern and the voice of Maryden, the bard, echoing around them.

« Find me still searching  
For someone to lead me  
Can you guide me  
To the revolt inside me… »

The bearded man realizes that he usually doesn’t pay attention to her songs, but these words now hit straight into him.

« Promise  
Surviving  
The Breach »

Eventually, they’re going to seal the Breach – _she_ is going to close it.

Blackwall saw in Gwen’s face the pain that she feels every time she closes a rift with her Mark, even though she does her best to hide it.

Maker’s balls, the rifts are just the smallest part of the blasted Breach: what effect do the larger ones have on her?

« Promise  
Surviving  
The Breach  
In the sky »

A terrible fear takes a grip of his heart, threatening to squash it into pieces.

The Herald means so much for all of them, she is their beacon of hope.

No, they can’t lose her.

 _He_ can’t lose her.

“Warden Blackwall? Is there something wrong?” Lavellan asks him, upset by his sudden scowl.

Her concern moves him, she is always so alert and careful towards her neighbor. “N-no, I’m fine, my l– “ he trails off, as soon as he notices that she’s touching her small hand to his gloved one leaned on the table in front of them.

« Templar  
Igniting  
Fire inside me »

Despite the layers of clothes that divide his skin from hers, the veteran soldier feels warmth spread all over his arm, and a small groan escapes from his lips as he fights the impulse to intertwine those delicate fingers with his.

Andraste preserve him, he can’t do this… he can’t even think about this.

Why? Why does she affect him that much?

He’s supposed to look at her as a guide, as an icon. Not as the gorgeous woman she is.

Damn, he’s not even worthy to _talk_ to her.

Yet, there she is, gazing at him with those green orbs that can make him forget everything and everyone else but her.

« Maker  
Remind me  
Gone are the days  
Of our peace »

Fuck, he has to get a hold of himself.

He clears his throat. “My lady, you don’t have worry about me. What about you? Can I get you another ale?”

Lavellan withdraws her hand from his, drawing a small whimper out of him, and grabs her almost empty tankard. “No, thank you. I think that two pints are quite enough for me.”

“Two? Well, you’re quite the drinker then, my lady.” Blackwall jokes, and he’s rewarded by a chuckle from her.

“Let’s just say I know when to stop,” she replies, still smirking at him.

« Now we reside  
In the great divide »

They fall silent once again, their eyes locked into each other’s. Gwen’s shy smile is mirrored in her intense expression, something that keeps happening more often when they talk.

« No promise  
Surviving  
The Breach  
In the sky »

“You know…” she speaks. “You’re oddly charming for a man I found wandering the forest.”

Blackwall’s heart skips a beat. “What– Oh. I think that those two pints got to your head, my lady. You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not!” She pouts, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I might be a bit tipsy, but I know what I am talking about.”

Maker’s balls, is she– is she trying to flirt with him? No it can’t be. _Don’t let it go over your head, you dirty bugger._

“Well, I always thought myself more odd than charming, but I’ll take a compliment from a lady. They’re hard to come by these days.”

Lavellan’s grin widens. “I also find your modesty endearing.”

“And the praise keeps coming.” He scoffs. “So, is there something large and heavy you need moved?”

“No, that would be a waste of your particular talents.”

He raises a bow, intrigued. “Oh, really?”

“Of course.” She lifts her chin in a cheeky posture. “You’re much better suited to standing in front of dragons while they try to eat you.”

Blackwall looks at her agape, and, immediately, all Gwen’s audacity disappears, her shoulders hunching as she tries to hide herself with her hands. “Fenedhis, Varric is right. I’m terrible at this humor thing. I’m so sorry, I–”

She can’t finish her sentence because the man begins to laugh out-loud. “No, my lady. That was perfect!”

“Really?”

He nods, taking a deep breath to calm down his emotions. “ _You_ are perfect like this, my lady. Please, never change.”

_And please, my lady, promise me you’ll survive the Breach in the sky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics are from the tavern song “Rise”.
> 
> I apologize because of this delayed update, but last week has been very busy for me, I hardly had the time to even open my laptop. I hope this chapter will make up for the wait.
> 
> If you’d like to write your opinion about it I’d love to read it! =)


	9. Back from the future

**8\. Back from the future**

_“We’ll go on ahead, take out as many as we can. Leliana, you’re the last line of defense. Give them what you’ve got.”_

_“No! I won’t let you commit suicide.”_

_“Look at us. We’re already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes.”_

_“Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows.”_

_“No!!!”_

_“Lady Lavellan?”_

_“What–?”_

“Lady Lavellan!”

Gwen opens her eyes to the sound of the female voice calling her.

Wooden ceiling above her, soft bed under her: this has already happened before.

Her breathing is erratic, her heart beats faster than the normal, her skin is wet with sweat: she is panicking.

Where is she?

No, most important… _What day_ is it?

“Lady Lavellan? Are you ok?”

The woman slowly turns her head to a side, finding the worried face of an elven girl just a few inches from hers.

She knows her. “Oh– Audrey?”

Right, she is in Haven, the Inquisition’s home base, and this is her personal cabin.

“My lady!” The big eyes of the young servant are full of tears. “You were screaming in your sleep – again! I thought you might be in pain given how desperate your voice was.”

Screaming? That explains the soreness of her throat.

Pain? No, her body is not hurting, not even her marked hand. Still, what is this heavy height pressing on her chest?

“I am all right, Audrey. I’m sorry I–”

“Another nightmare, my lady?”

A nightmare?

Ever since the explosion at the Conclave, Lavellan keeps reliving those events in her head while she walks through the Fade.

This time, though, it is different.

She inhales deeply, trying to get a hold of herself over all the anxiety and the confusion clouding her mind.

“Your cries were so loud you almost woke up the whole village,” Audrey explains. “It is pretty crowded now, with all those apostates you brought with you from Redcliffe. And I didn’t want them to know that my lady was suffering.”

Of course, now Gwen’s dream makes sense – it was not a real nightmare but the memory of what had occurred at the Castle of the Arl days ago. Actually, those events began to haunt her from the moment she stepped out of that blasted portal.

Traveling through time! How is it even possible?

Yet they did it, Dorian Pavus and she.

And now she struggles to recover from that trauma; the shift between waking and sleeping disorients the Void out of her.

“Thank you, Lethallin.” With her head still resting on the pillow, she smiles, trying to look as persuasive as possible. “I really appreciate your concern. You are right, it was just a bad dream. You can go back to your room to rest, I am all right.”

Audrey stares at her for a moment, the idea of leaving the Herald alone not convincing at all, though she knows better than to contradict her. Thus, reluctantly, she does as ordered. “See you for breakfast, my lady.”

Lavellan has grown very fond of this city elf, regardless of her aversion to having a personal servant. Only just think about that term makes her cringe – the girl is her assistant, that’s all.

Born from a family of Orlesian servants, and then moved to Haven to assist the sisters at the Chantry, Audrey is quite experienced for her young age. She is very attentive and careful, her clumsiness overshadowed by her sensitivity and her kind heart. If it was not for her, sometimes the Herald would even forget to eat, as she keeps muttering each time she brings the tray of food in the cabin.

But, most of all, she proved to be vital for Gwen to get acclimatized here.

Even for a Dalish, the mage always has been a loner, preferring the company of hallas to the one of the other components of her clan. Keeper Deshanna taught her the importance of good mannerism and diplomacy, though the occasions to exploit such competences have been rare – until the Conclave, of course. Now Lavellan has to deal with politics and social events daily, and, unfortunately, her mask of politeness is not enough for her to survive in a society so different from what she is used to. This is where Audrey’s help became fundamental for her, always ready to explain habits and customs of shemlens and other races that live here.

Still, a part of Gwen is convinced that she will never get accustomed to any of them and their cultures. Ferelden and its templars and rebel mages out of control, Orlais and their civil war, Tevinter and their crazy Magisterium and its poor subdued slaves, Orzammar and their rigid system of castes. There is so much chaos and ugliness in this world… how can she possibly deal with all of that?

She puffs, turning over in bed, facing the wall. There is silence all around her, only the crackles of the fireplace echoing in the air: the town of Haven is peacefully asleep, unlike the Herald.

She is exhausted, like she hasn’t slept in days – in some way, this might be true. Her eyelids feel heavy, yet she doesn’t want to give up and close them, because she knows that those terrible reveries would be immediately back to torture her.

Fenhedis, it’s too late, here they are.

Images of the dark future she witnessed are running wild in her mind.

The castle of Redcliffe wrecked.

Corpses and veins of red lyrium all over the place.

Her companions turned into pale ghosts of themselves, tortured and consumed by the negative powers lingering in the sick air.

There was no time left, they had to move fast and fight hard to reach Alexius and defeat him.

They did it, but at a terrible cost.

_“We’ll go on ahead, take out as many as we can. Leliana, you’re the last line of defense. Give them what you’ve got.”_

Blackwall, Varric and Sister Nightingale sacrificed their lives to give Ser Pavus the time to cast the spell to open the portal that would have lead him and Lavellan back to the present.

Everything worked, and they are all safe and sound, the only traces of that awful future lies idle in her and Dorian’s memories. So why is this anguish gripping her guts?

Gwen takes a long breath while curling herself into a ball under the blanket. She closes her eyes, and with a shudder she recalls the ruthless way Leliana fought against all those Venatori that were trying to enter the throne room, the brave way Varric kept firing with Bianca even when a Wraith casted a spell right into his chest, the careless way that blasted Terror demon tossed Blackwall’s lifeless body at her feet.

Oh, Creators… Blackwall!

A strangled groan escapes from Lavellan’s mouth, and, trembling, she pushes her covers to a side: going back to sleep is out of question; perhaps having a walk will help her to calm down a bit.

Outside her cabin, the nocturnal fog has already left the place, though there is no sign of dawn yet. The Dalish notices a set of footprints on the fresh snow in front of her door that leads to the building nearby – thank goodness Audrey must have listened to her and gone straight back to her own bed.

Slowly, Gwen starts to stroll across the deserted small town, on its muddy road made even more slippery by the humidity of the night. Her legs are tired for the lack of sleep and her neck is painfully stiff, but the chilly fresh air that floods into her lungs is energizing. However it is not enough to chase away her distress.

Fenedhis lasa.

He was dead.

Blackwall was dead.

Lavellan saw him, lying immovable on the stone floor, his handsome face covered in blood and his piercing azure eyes dull, without any sign of life in them.

For an endless moment, she thought she’d pass away as well, the devastating ache that she felt at that sight, too much to bear. By the Dread Wolf, she almost endangered the mission – endangered them all, because her impulse was to rush at his side, to take him in her arms, to hold him close.

_“You move and we all die!”_

Thankfully, ser Pavus’ words stopped her, reminding her that they still could go back to their present and save everyone, Warden Blackwall included. And when it happened, it did cost to the Herald a great deal not to unleash all her rage and her grief on the bewildered Alexius, as soon as they stepped outside the time portal.

Once again her rationality won over her feelings, allowing her to choose what’s best for the Inquisition. Now the Magister is imprisoned in the dungeons here in Haven, while Enchanter Fiona’s rebel mages are their new allies. But those events left an undeletable scar on her soul, other than a terrible confusion in her mind.

For the love of the Gods, why did Blackwall’s death affect her so deeply?

The whole situation in that terrible future was grim – all the people corrupted by the red lyrium, the usual mocking smirk completely disappeared from Varric’s face, Sister Nightingale horribly disfigured after months of torture… So why is that single event what torments her most?

The man is alive and breathing, now probably resting just a few feet from her, unaware of the experience he could have withstand. Actually, Gwen did her best to avoid him ever since they came back from Redcliffe, because she doesn’t know how to behave around him anymore.

Why does she miss him so much, then?

May Fen’Harel take her, Blackwall is a human. She is not supposed to get attached like this to one of the oh-so-hated shemlens – she usually barely _tolerates_ them.

And yet, all that she can think is to run to him, to hear him talk, to look into his mesmerizing eyes, to see his cute smirk under his glorious beard, to sense him _alive_. She misses their awkward conversations, sometimes embarrassing to her, but also giving her a very odd vibe of joy she never experienced before.

She misses _everything_ about him.

“My lady?”

The elf’s blood freezes into her veins as the husky, sexy voice of the Grey Warden that haunts her dreams calls her.

_What…?_

She focuses her attention on the surroundings, realizing that somehow her random wandering took her outside the gates of Haven, right to the last place she wanted to be, the blacksmith.

 _Dirthara-ma, silly woman!_ She curses against herself. So much for her effort to stay away from the subject of her obsession!

Defeated, Lavellan turns around to face Blackwall, just to startle at the sight of his beautiful smile.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“H-hi…” She stammers, embarrassed.

“Is something the matter? You’re up so early…”

“Wh-what? N-no! Well, I could ask you the same.”

“I always get up at this time. I don’t sleep that much, I prefer to be useful, helping Master Harrit revive the fire of the forge.” The Warden explains, pointing towards the smithy who was already at work.

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I had no idea.” There are so many things Gwen doesn’t know about him, sadly.

“What about you, my lady? I heard there are problems of integrations between the rebel mages we just recruited and the rest of the Inquisition soldiers.”

A new pang of guilt runs through the Herald, for she did completely forget about the discussion she had with Cullen and Cassandra at the war table last evening.

Seeing that she hesitates, Blackwall continues. “There was never going to be an easy answer to the mage dilemma. What you did for them took courage. You gave them a chance. Everyone deserves one.”

“Well… Thank you.” She replies while sensing her cheeks blushing.

“You don’t have to thank me, my lady. I only speak the truth. You are a blessing for us all.”

This is so typical of him, always ready to support her, to encourage her. And she likes him so much for it.

Wait.

Wait.

_Wait._

She _likes_ him.

She does like _him_.

Creators!

This awareness strikes the Dalish with the force of lightning, leaving her mouth agape.

This is why she is always so eager to come here and talk to him – the fact that he is part of the order of the Grey Wardens, that she always admired, quickly ended up on the scrap heap.

This is why she chose him as permanent member of her ground team – his formidable warrior skills are as important as his ability to make her feel relaxed, at ease.

This is why the memory of his death drives her crazy – just the idea of losing him threatens to destroy Gwen’s heart for good.

That’s it.

Mythal help her, she has fallen for Blackwall.

_Emma vhenan._

Lavellan stares at the man while trembling, not trusting herself to speak because of the surge of overwhelming sentiments bursting inside her. He reciprocates her gaze, and, despite he is oblivious to her internal struggle, amazingly, his expression is full of tenderness and affection.

A spark of hope begins to burn inside her chest. _Perhaps he does feel the same about me?_

“I’m glad I got the chance to meet you now,” he says. “It’s been awhile since the events of Redcliffe, and we didn’t have the chance to talk about them.”

 _No, please, don’t._ She doesn’t have the heart to deal with them now – probably not ever.

“Honestly, I’d rather not talk about them. I-I just want to forget.”

The Wardens frowns slightly. “I understand it. Maker knows what you’ve been through there. Although… I apologize, my lady, but there is something I have to ask you.”

She can’t say no to him. “All right. Go ahead.”

“What was I like in that dark future you saw?”

Fenendhis, what a question.

He was hurt.

He was angry.

He was desperate.

He was strong.

He was brave.

He was _heroic_.

“You fought with honor and died a hero. You did the Wardens proud.”

_And you broke my heart into pieces._

He sighs at her words. “Then I was worth something in the end. Thank you.”

Worth _something_?

Why does he always underestimate himself? He is a righteous man, valiant, reliable, funny, sweet and handsome – why can’t he see that?

Still shivering, she looks over the frozen lake and the snowy mountains in front of them, catching the first sign of the dawn: this will be a beautiful sunny day, the perfect day to realize that she has fallen for someone for the first time in her life.

May the Creators have mercy on her, because she has fallen for no less than a human, a bloody shem.

What is she supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I want to thank my lovely friend **Galtori** for always finding the time to check my fic and correct my grammar mistakes.
> 
> And, a special thanks goes to my super supportive friends **Saraportela** and **Kaidanbioticapprentice** , because their help has been essential for this chapter to come out exactly as I wanted it to be.
> 
> Translation:  
> \- ‘Dirthara-ma’: “May you learn.” Used as a curse.  
> \- ‘Emma vhenan’: my heart.


	10. The Breach

**9\. The Breach**

They did it.

They bloody did it.

They closed the Maker-forsaken Breach above the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Well, _she_ did it.

Gwen Lavellan managed to do the unthinkable.

And thanks to the holy Andraste, the Elven Gods or whoever watched over her, she survived!

Blackwall can barely contain his euphoria after everything that happened during this awesome day: their mission is accomplished, the sky is healed and his lady is back, safe and sound.

He swallows a long sip of his drink while watching the town folks celebrating around the huge bonfire they set up before the Chantry. The atmosphere is joyful, with the sound of laughs and songs echoing all over the place, the smell of roasted ram and Fereldan ale flooding his nostrils.

Wait, isn’t that Sera the one who’s stealing a whole bowl of steamy potatoes right under the nose of the cook? The warrior bursts into laughter at the poor old woman’s shocked face when she finally notices the theft – the young elven archer is ruthless when it comes to food.

From his hidden position, a little bench placed in a corner far away from the crowd, Blackwall can observe all the people he knows here: from Varric and Solas chatting at a table with two tankards in from of them, to Bull and his chargers singing out loud completely drunk, and also Cassandra and Cullen discussing lively with Leliana outside the Chantry doors… but there is no sign of Lady Lavellan.

_Maker’s balls, where is she?_

Knowing how shy she is, and the way she clearly feels uncomfortable when she finds herself in the center of the attention, she probably closed herself up in her cabin.

Still… what if something happened? What if closing the Breach didn’t leave her as unharmed as they first presumed?

The man shudders at the thought: he has been terrified by the possibility of losing her because of that; hence, when she stood up, alive and breathing, he was too much relieved to even notice the grimace on her face caused by the ache on her marked hand.

He stares down at his almost empty mug, all his excitement suddenly disappeared, uncertain about his next move. Should he go and look for her? Just to be sure she’s alright – Maker, she has to be. He couldn’t bear it if she’d be in pain and he’d have no means to help her.

Blackwall already felt utterly useless back at Redcliffe, when the Dalish disappeared along with Pavus in that time portal. The moment lasted just a few seconds, yet to him it seemed to be endless. Then she was back and she was the personification of anger and fury; clearly, what she witnessed in that basted dark future shocked her a great deal.

After that episode, once they were back at Haven, he hardly met her. Yes, she was awfully busy with the political and diplomatic issues that her choice to recruit those rebel mages as allies for the Inquisition generated, but he was sure there was more to it – she was avoiding him.

His lady relied on him, and he had failed her, leaving her to face that blasted nightmare alone. Of course she was upset with him, and didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Her visits and their conversations had become very important to him, nevertheless he managed to screw it up – he was damn good at ruining his own life with his filthy hands.

Consequently, the warrior kept fulfilling his duties, despite the hole in his chest, the loss of Lavellan’s presence like a physical wound in his empty heart.

Was it really done? All his silly hopes of becoming a better men, a soldier that could have stood proudly at the Herald of Andraste’s side, together with other brave men and women of the Inquisition… were they all scattered to the wind?

He had the answer to his question two days ago, when Gwen showed up at the blacksmith in the early morning. She appeared tired, exhausted, the burden of the past events evidently weighting on her, heavily. Still, to him, she looked more stunning ever, with the first lights of dawn dancing over her weary face.

Blackwall could hardly hide his joy while they chatted, but he didn’t miss the way the woman kept stuttering every time their eyes met, the way her cheeks were slowly turning red, the way she tripped on each available stone on the snowy road as she left to reach the advisors inside the Chantry: for some reason, she was uncomfortable in his presence.

She affirmed that he acted like a hero in that dark future she briefly glimpsed. Then why was she embarrassed? There was more to it, was it not?

So caught up in his musings, at first the veteran soldier doesn’t notice the faint rustle of feet stepping on the snow, thus he startles when a female voice with an Orlesian accent calls him. “Ser Blackwall?”

He turns towards the newcomer that approached him, a tiny brunette elf. He recognizes he: she is the Herald’s personal serv– no, her personal assistant, he corrects himself.

“Good evening, Audrey.” He greets her.

“Good evening to you, ser. Lady Lavellan sent me here, looking for you.”

All at once, Blackwall pounces the girl, grabbing her shoulders with both his hands, his tankard discarded on the floor. “Did something happen to her? Where is she?” he almost yells, panicked.

Audrey gasps, scared by his reaction, her big hazel eyes staring up at him in surprise. “N-no. She is fine. F-fine, just fine.”

“Is she? Oh, thank the Maker,” he breathes, relieved. Then he stops to realize he practically assaulted the poor elf, and immediately releases her from his hold as a wave of guilt runs over him. Rubbing his nape, ashamed, he opens his mouth to apologize, but she cuts him off, shrugging.

“Are you busy, ser?”

Apparently she recovered unbelievably quickly from the shock – very remarkable.

“ _Do not disturb him if he’s busy_ , she told me,” the girl explains, trying to replicate Gwen’s tone. “Am I disturbing you, ser?”

“No, Audrey, you’re not. Don’t worry.” He reassures her. “Tell me, then. What does Lady Lavellan want from me?”

* * *

A chilly breeze blows through the loose vegetation of the mountain that overlooks Haven from behind the Chantry, while Blackwall proceeded along the muddy road that the young servant pointed to him. According to her, Lady Lavellan is waiting for him on the top of this hidden hill.

 _“The Herald usually spends time in there, resting._ It is a secret _, she said. Her secret.”_

Audrey explained it to him, so now he can’t help but think: why would Gwen share her secret with him? And why would she want him to join her there? Not that he is not happy about it, of course. Still, there is something strange in this situation, and it makes him nervous.

Soon he reaches the end of the path, stopping for a moment to stretch his tired back with a huff – perhaps he had one too many ales this evening to hike so hastily. Focusing his attention on his surroundings, all he glimpses in the dark are trees and bushes. He projects the light of his lantern on the soft snow at his feet, but there are no tracks, not even the ones of the many fennecs that live in this region. How is this even possible?

“Andaran atish’an, Blackwall.”

The man startles slightly at the sound of the suave voice of Lady Lavellan, yet he can’t possibly find where it comes from. Bewildered, he looks around himself with no success, followed by an amused giggle. “Up here, Warden.”

And then, he finally finds her: an unmistakable greenish glow emanates from one of the highest branches of the tree at his left, with Gwen is sitting astride it, her back leaned on the trunk, her legs swinging playfully.

“My lady,” he greets her, bowing his head in a chivalry way. “I have to admit, when Audrey told me you wanted my company, I didn’t expect an evening of trekking and tree-climbing.”

The woman laughs. “Oh that’s a pity, it’s so comfortable in here. But don’t worry, I have a backup plan.” With that, she disappears again, only the faint rustle of leaves accompanying her descent. One last jump, and she gracefully lands right in front of him.

“So, the rumors about the extraordinary deftness of the Dalish hunters are true, after all.” Blackwall says, noticing how the flame of his lantern doesn’t even flinch the moment Lavellan reaches him. “That’s very impressiv– oh!”

He trails off as his eyes meets hers: those emerald globes are literally shining in the dark, even more vividly than the Mark on the Herald’s hand. Another fascinating peculiarity of her kind, no doubt.

“That’s– wow. You never stop to amaze me, my lady.” He affirms, still staring at her. She’s wearing her combat armor, with a bag hanging from her shoulder.

She tilts her head on a side, her well-known confused expression evident despite the darkness. “I hope you mean it in a positive way.”

“Of course, I do.”

Comforted, Gwen relaxes her posture. “I am glad you joined me. I wasn’t sure you’d do it. I hoped it, but…”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well, there’s the celebration…”

“Nothing makes me happier than the company of a beautiful lady willing to spend her time with me,” he affirms, shamelessly, being awarded by her shy giggles. “Besides, I’m not into merrymaking and such. I’m more the type of person who observes from afar.”

“You’re just like me.” She remarks. “Follow me, then.”

They move silently across the bushes, and soon they reach a small clearing at the brink of the hill.

“Maker’s balls!” The warrior can’t help but exclaim as he loses himself in the breathtaking landscape before them. The entire valley at their feet is illuminated by the stars in the sky and by firelights of Haven, the candid snow all over the place sparkling like myriads of diamonds.

“It’s so beautiful, I had no idea…”

Lavellan nods. “I love to spend my time here. Well, not actually _here_ – you know, trees are definitely a better place to enjoy the view. However I guess this could work too.”

After she fumbles into her pack, a plaidweave blanket comes out of it. “Audrey always insists I take this with me, even though I don’t need it.” She shakes the cloth in the air and lays it on the ground. “Now it turns out to be useful, for once.”

“So she saved the day!” Blackwall jokes, while sitting on the cover at Gwen’s side, his lantern dropped on a rock nearby.

The stark yellow of the plaidweave against the pure white of the snow is quite an eyesore, anyway the man couldn’t care less about it: his attention is all focused on the lovely lady with him. He can’t believe she asked him to join her in her secret place, sharing the view and the blanket with him. What did he do to deserve such privilege?

Again, the Herald delves into her bag, taking out a bottle and two empty glasses, and handing one to him. Blackwall takes it, his astonishment swiftly replaced with interest as she pours an unknown purplish liquid to both of them. Under her attentive scrutiny, he smells it, and the strong alcoholic scent of herbs almost stuns him.

“It’s a special liquor, a recipe that has belonged to Clan Lavellan for centuries,” the Dalish explains. “Keeper Deshanna sent it to me through Leliana’s agents, when they went to visit my people months ago. I kept it ever since, meaning to open it for an important occasion.”

“Such as… closing the Breach?”

“Yes.” She turns her head up to stargaze. “This, and my birthday.”

“What?” The warrior jumps, nearly spilling his drink on his legs. “It is your birthday? Maker’s balls! My lady, I apologize, I had no idea–”

“You don’t have to.” Gwen interrupts him, still not daring to look back at him. “No one knows it, and I am alright with it. I usually hate this day.”

Blackwall stares at her, quizzical, waiting for her to carry on.

“My parents died the day of my fourth birthday.”

 _Oh fuck_ , he thinks. “That’s… That’s awful, my lady. I am so sorry…”

“Every year my clan mourns the loss of the great huntress Calemiril and her husband Thavron, and I with them.” She sighs, gloomy. “This is the first time I actually feel like celebrating my birthday instead. Today we saved the world from an invasion of demons from the Fade. I guess my parents would be happy of it.”

“I am sure they would,” the man states, leaning a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. “They would be so unbelievably proud of their brave daughter, no doubt about it.”

Finally, Lavellan’s eyes are back focused on him, her full lips stretched in a bashful smile.

“So, happy birthday, my lady.” Blackwall releases his hold on her and raises his glass towards her. He swallows a gulp from it, followed immediately by a cough. “Woah, that’s a damn strong spirit!”

She beams him a cocky grin. “It’s a special brew of royal elfroot and rashvine.”

“What? Rashvine?”

“Indeed. You know, that herb is mostly used to create salves that harden the skin or otherwise provide protection – not to mention being one of the primary ingredients for Antivan fire. But it’s heavily poisonous, so the process of brewing it is really difficult and dangerous. For all I know, only my clan found a safe way to do it, though it is a secret only shared between few chosen ones.”

The bearded warrior takes another sip and grunts. “Maker’s balls, it’s like liquid fire.”

She switches her position so that she’s now sitting on her heels, her knees brushing against his right thigh. “Is it too much for you, big man?” She teases him, sneering.

“No no. It’s just… Andraste have mercy on me, I’m getting really old.”

“Oh, come on!” The Dalish slaps playfully his arm. “This is _my_ birthday, I am the one who’s getting older.”

“Yeah. Speaking of which… How old are you, if I can dare to ask, my lady?”

“I’m turning twenty six.”

Blackwall’s jaw almost drop on his own lap: Maker’s balls, she is young, too young.

Well, of course she is, her juvenile appearance is evident. Thing is, he never actually lingered on the thought of such young woman having the bloody fate of the whole world on her shoulders – perhaps it’s because of her stern, mature and adult expression.

“What about you?” Gwen inquires him.

“I’m afraid I reached forty a few days before we first meet.”

“Then you should be perfectly able to hold on this liquor.” She winks at him.

“I am, indeed. I’m just…” He swallows more of it, hopeful to find the courage he needs at the bottom of his glass. “I’m flattered, for this bottle and this day are both so important to you, and yet you’re sharing them with me.”

And there it is, her typical frown is back clouding her beautiful face. “Why shouldn’t I? There is no one else I’d rather drink it with – or spend this evening with.”

Maker’s balls. Why? Why does she want his company? He’s just an old dirty bugger, he is not worthy of her attention. And still, he doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here with her. May the Void take him, he is a horrible selfish bastard, too.

“Why thank you, my lady. You’re always so kind to me, I don’t deserve it.”

Lavellan rolls her eyes, exasperated. “You keep repeating this, and it’s stupid. I do what I do because I want to, that’s all.”

Blackwall wishes it’d be as simple as that, though he knows better than that. The Herald is a blessing to them all, always doing her best to help those who are in need, and never asking anything in return.

He carries on with his speech, trying to make his point clear to her. “You also took the time to help me find those Grey Wardens relics, even if there were hundred things that needed your attention.”

She empties her own glass and drops it on the blanket. “It was a good cause. If the history you pursue benefits the Wardens, then it was worth it.”

“You’ve proven yourself to be an honorable woman. Principled. I’ve great admiration for you, and I’ve never been more certain in my decision to join you.”

Gwen jerks her head back to gaze at him, surprised. “Admiration? Oh, I would never have guessed that you admire me.”

“Of course I do.” He gives her his sweetest smile. “You have the world at your feet, myself included.”

“I don’t want to be worshipped. I don’t deserve that sort of reverence.” Despite her efforts to hide her embarrassment, she’s clearly blushing.

“Modest, too! Your list of qualities continues to grow.” He chuckles. “Now, we should return to our drink before I get too carried away.”

The woman raises her right hand, though instead of grabbing the bottle, she places it on his one, that is resting on his lap. “I’d like you to get carried away with me.”

Sparks of electricity runs through his whole body, and they’ve nothing to do with her magic and everything with the poignant look in her gorgeous eyes.

Andraste preserve him, he knew he was in trouble the moment he met her.

He can’t escape those shiny green orbs, he can’t escape her soft touch, he can’t escape her.

He never could, nor would he ever want to.

Blackwall swallows hard, trying to contain the maddened beating of his poor bruised heart.

Her intense gaze is more eloquent than any speech she could give him, yet he needed her to say the words, to imprint them into his soul.

“Why am I here, my lady?”

Lavellan takes a deep breath, intertwining her fingers with his. “Because… Because I li–”

The rings of the Chantry bells cut her off, and the faint echo of Commander Cullen’s voice resounds from below them.

“Forces approaching! To arms!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people!
> 
> I am so sorry for taking so damn much to update this fic, but between Christmas, my birthday and other personal issues... I didn't have much time and energy to write. But now I am baaaaaaack! And not only with this chapter, but also the render I made that goes along with it! :D
> 
> Once again, I also want to thank my super lovely friends **Saraportela** , **Kaidansbioticapprentice** and **Galtori** for their help: you girls are the best. ♥
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, and I'd love to know your opinions so far!
> 
> _**Just a clarification:** All we know about Blackwall’s real age is what the devs told us about him, that he is in his early forties. Someone on Tumblr managed to come to the conclusion that he should be around 42/43 years old, thanks to some banters between him and Cole (about his dead sister and his habit of getting her flowers each year the day of her death)._
> 
> _So, my choice to have him 40 years old in this story is quite close the canon, and I did it for specific reasons._
> 
> _The idea of him entering in a new decade when he meets Gwen and joins the Inquisition works perfectly with the concept of starting a new life, his real second chance to put things right. Turning forty is a fundamental step for a person, and like this it gains even more relevance._
> 
> _This will also show up later on in the fic, when the truth about him will finally come out: you’ll see it. ;)_
> 
> _Last but not least, the age gap between him and the Inquisitor is 14 years, and I think it could work with no issues at all. I personally always had a thing for men definitely older than me, but I don’t want Blackwall being too much older than Gwen, because I want them to live a long long happy life, together until the end (yeah, I’m sappy I know! XD)._
> 
> _Please, don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging the people who write about their Inquisitor and Blackwall having bigger age gaps between them, everyone is free to headcanon whatever they want, of course! This is just what I headcanon for my OTP._ =)


	11. Interlude II

**10\. Interlude II**

**_Dorian_ **

_From a personal letter addressed to Felix Alexius._

My dear friend,

I’m writing you this letter to tell you important news. I’m aware that this is going to reach you long after the rumors of such news spread, but I don’t care, I need to do it anyway.

The Herald of Andraste, with my support and the support of all the rebel mages of Redcliffe, finally closed the Breach in the sky.

The event had been epic: seeing that amazing amount of individuals – mages, no less! – collaborating to reach all together an important goal such that, had been definitely impressive. If only we could achieve such level of dedication and trust back at home, Tevinter would really be the great Imperium they claim it to be.

I can clearly picture in my mind your knowing expression as if you’d be in front of me. You never gave up the faith in our people, not like I did, a long time ago.

Now I am starting to see your point – in an important day like this, how could I not?

You should be here with me, my friend. You’d love to breathe this new air of changing, of evolution.

Haven, this small town once forgotten by the Maker, has become the center of the world, gathering expectancies and hopes from all over Thedas. Those templars of theirs, mages and common folks, all working together like a team, it’s quite the show.

And everything is thanks to her, Gwen Lavellan.

When I heard about the infamous Dalish clans, scattered all over the South, I thought they’d be some kind of uncivilized, barbarian brutes. Well, not so far away from the common opinion of us Tevinter people about the southerners, to be honest.

I was wrong, we all were.

This elf is the most appealing and charismatic one I ever met, very polite and elegant, despite being quite introverted and a bit grumpy. It adds to her charm, I guess.

I appreciate her pragmatism and her frankness, the way she never relents when there is a goal to follow through. She is also a skilled mage, with a great control of her powers which she uses with no worries – very different from all the rebel apostates I am coming to know during this journey, either so afraid of their own shadow projected on the ground or shamelessly arrogant.

Gwen never makes me feel out of place, despite my origin and my heritage. Actually, if there is something I learned from her, is that it doesn’t matter where you come from, what deity you worship, how old you are. Everyone can help to make this world a better place, even an outsider Dalish like her or an outcast Altus as myself.

And, I have to tell you, my friend – I am coming to enjoy this. I feel like I’m back when I was a young apprentice that just joined your father’s entourage, eager to learn from him and full of hope for the future.

I can’t say that things worked perfectly at the time as I wished them to, but I am grateful because, despite what happened with Alexius, I nonetheless gained your precious friendship. And now, the same events brought me here, in the company of another extraordinary being. Thankfully, when I was ready to give up confidence in mankind, I discovered that you’re not the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to call Gwen Lavellan a friend, as I do with you. Still, I’m beginning to care about her, and finding myself willing to help her to go through this whole “Herald of Andraste” affair.

Days ago we had an interesting chat about the Chantry and their religion, and she demonstrated an impressive awareness about her role in this troubled society. It is a secret to no one that she is firmly tied to her Dalish roots, worshipping the Elvhen Gods of old, and yet she accepted to lead all these devoted Andrastians because it was the right thing to do.

This world could use more individuals who put the good of others above themselves – individuals like her, and like you, Felix.

You had to go back to Tevinter because you intend to speak to the Magisterium, I get that. Your testimonial will surely be as brilliant as everything you always do. Nevertheless, I can’t help but think that your place is here with us.

The Inquisition accepted me in their ranks after what happened back at the Castle of Redcliffe, whilst we both know that the credit is mine as well as it is yours. No, it’s mostly yours: turning against your own father requires a heavy amount of guts.

Anyway, I promise you that I will continue to work hard with the Inquisition to resolve all the mess caused by the Breach, and I will do it with style of course. Maker know how much those southerners need it.

Now I bet you just heaved a resigned sigh – hey, come on, you didn’t think I could carry on with such serious subjects for too long… did you?

For a perfect specimen of handsome and elegant man like me, living here in Haven, among all those peasants, is proving to be quite the challenge. There are a few people – all from Orlais, of course – that show up having at least some decent taste and savoir fare, but I can’t say I look forward to interacting with them.

Gwen Lavellan herself, despite her wild heritage, is amazingly refined and graceful. I caught her more than once eyeing lovely dresses in the shops of Val Royeax – she seems to appreciate purple cloths amongst everything else, and I bet it would fit her wonderfully. I have to convince her to buy something, sooner.

On the other hand, apparently she has questionable taste when it comes to men. Not that she would ever openly talk about it, nor I’d ask her about it. Still, whilst she hardly speaks about herself, her expression definitely can’t fool me: she has an inexplicable interest towards the Grey Warden of our fellowship. She takes advantage of all the chances she gets to stare at him with longing when no one notices her – no one but me.

What in the name of the Maker does she sees in a gross human like Blackwall? All right, he’s quite the hunk if you like the rude bearded type. He’s so burly, and hairy… at least he must be delightfully warm by the fire. Yet, there is something about him that unsettles me, and makes me worry about Gwen’s poor heart. He’s shady, mysterious – he clearly has his secrets and has no intention of sharing them.

I know this is none of my business, but I am concerned about her well-being, so I intend to keep my eyes on him, at least until I find out his real intentions about our Herald. Of course this is not the easiest task, the man can really get on my nerves with his irritating behavior and bias towards nobles and Tevinter folks no less, fasta vaas.

I just hope that Gwen will soon turn her attention towards someone else more worthy of her, because she deserves it. Although, this is not the time to think about naiveties like matters of the heart and such – we have an organization to lead.

With that, I salute you. It’s time for me to try to mingle in the rural party the people of Haven has set up to celebrate the closure of the Breach – yeah, what I mean is that I’m probably going to drink myself into stupor to put up with them.

And you, dear Felix, take care of yourself.

Please, my friend. Do it.


	12. The Elder One

**11\. The Elder One**

_Frostback mountains._

This is a bloody nightmare.

Blackwall’s breathing is erratic as he digs his feet in the fresh snow that covers the place around him.

A nightmare, yes, it must be.

Because the idea of his lady lost somewhere else alone, freezing to her bones, probably wounded, if not worse… no, this is not bearable.

“Lady Lavellan!”

He yells with all the strength in his tired body, not mindful of other unwanted attentions he could attract instead of hers.

The Elder One eventually showed up, crushing through the weak defenses of Haven and destroying everything on his way to reach his target: the Herald of Andraste.

Thanks to her amazing braveness, the capable Dalish managed to take care of the monster and his blasted Archdemon pet, allowing the rest of them to escape.

But at what cost?

“Herald of Andraste!”

“Gwen Lavellan!”

A choir of voices echoes all over the valley, the people of the Inquisition looking for their savior after they secured a small camp to shelter everyone from the chilling cold of the mountains – thankfully, at least the storm had passed.

No one seems to relent, though they are well aware that the more the time goes on, the less are the chances that–

_No._

Stop it.

Blackwall has to find her, and he _will_.

“Lady Lavellan!”

A blighted, stupid, useless, old wretch he is, that is the truth. A real capable warrior would have not let his lady down like that – not today, not ever. Instead, he keeps failing her, over and over.

He carries on replaying in his mind the events of the evening: what could he have done differently? How could he have saved her?

“Herald of Andraste!”

Maker’s balls, just a few hours ago he was basking in the happiness that the closeness to Gwen always brings to him… and now here he is, desperate and scared.

_“Why am I here, my lady?”_

_“Because… Because I li–”_

What was she going to tell him, sitting atop of that hill?

The moment was so romantic, there was a lovely view in front of them, liquor in their glasses and sparks in her bright emerald eyes while she was staring at him, her full lips stretched into the loveliest smile ever. Then, a ring from the bells of the Chantry, the enchantment was broken and she couldn’t finish her sentence.

A part of him might think, or rather fear, to know the answer to his question. Nonetheless he avoids to give it credit, for she can’t really… No, Blackwall doesn’t have to even ponder about that absurd possibility.

_But what if–_

No.

His urgency to listen to those missing words from her is second only to the need to locate her, safe and sound. He had no time for idle conjectures – he has to run faster, yell stronger, search better.

“Lady Lavellan!”

As soon as the call comes out of his mouth in the form of white smoke, the warrior trips on a stone, falling clumsily on his stomach. He starts to list plenty of colored curses against his worthless self, his elbows and knees sinking deeper in the snow as he tries to get up again, when a gloved hand with bare fingers appears out of nowhere, to help him.

“Cold. Pain. She is exhausted. Her leg doesn’t stop bleeding. The Mark on her hand burns. But she can’t give up. She never gives up.”

Blackwall startles at the sound of the male voice that reaches his ear in a whisper. He turns his attention to the newcomer, a young human lad with ivory blond hair, ghostly pale skin and a spooky expression on his face, half hidden by the huge brim of his worn hat. Of course, he’s the rogue who came to warn them about the impending attack – too late, though.

“Uh– Cole, right?” He asks, once he is back on his feet. “What are you…”

“People need her.” The boy continues, ignoring his question, his grey eyes dull under his long fringe, as if he’s looking into another realm. “She has to go back to them. She has to go back to you. They interrupted you. She still has to talk to you. She can’t give up.”

“Maker’s balls!” The older man exclaims frantic, grabbing Cole’s shoulder and shaking him more vigorously than he probably intends. “Do you know where Lavellan is? Tell me already! We can’t waste time anymore! Please!”

His plea seems to have triggered something inside the lad, because now his gaze is focused on Blackwall. “She wants you to find her.”

“She wants me– But how? Where?”

Cole rises his right arm and his forefinger points to a high promontory, not very far away from them.

Without a second thought, the bearded warrior leaves his grip on the boy and dashes towards that place. He never run that quick in his whole life, cold and weariness completely forgotten as he flies to reach his lady.

Even in the heat of the moment, he notices that there are no other footprints but his all around him. How in Andraste’s name that lad knew where Gwen is and what she’s thinking about? They surely have to investigate Cole’s… special abilities, once the danger will be over.

“Lady Lavellan!”

The man halts dead on his tracks, his heartbeat maddening when he hears a faint sound coming from somewhere ahead. “… wall?”

Andraste’s flaming snickers, it’s her!

“My lady, I am here!” he yells while turning around the rock mass, and then he finally spots her.

The slender elf is standing with her bust bent forwards, her left shoulder leaned against the boulder and her legs visibly quivering for the effort to support her. Her right hand is pressing over a cut on her thigh while the glowing marked one is clung to her chest.

She rises her face slowly, just enough to glimpse at him under her disheveled dark fringe. “Black… wall…”

In the blink of an eye, the warrior is at her side, just in time to catch her as her knees give up. “Yes, my lady. It’s me.” He reassures her, inhaling deeply and trying to calm himself down with the knowledge that Gwen is alive and safe with him. Well, not exactly safe, given the gush of blood coming out from her now exposed wound, but at least she is with him now: it’s up to Blackwall bring her to their shelter immediately.

“Thank the Maker I found you, my lady. You have to worry no more, I’ll take care of you.”

Doing his best to ignore the lingering dread that still grips his guts, making it hard for him not to tremble, he slides his left shoulder under her right thin arm while his strong ones hauls her up in bridal style with absolutely no effort at all. This is not time to let concerns to drag him down – he has to be tenacious for her, this very moment more than ever.

With a gentle shake, he adjusts Lavellan’s lithe body in a more comfortable position, her glowing hand resting on her stomach and her head leaned against his breastplate. Eventually, the man manages to analyze her more attentively, noticing how much she’s shuddering for the cold, her clothes and her hair soaking wet, her skin terribly pale, her lids heavy and her full lips livid and bruised. And yet, she is smirking at him, even if it’s a feeble and strained smile, just a ghost of the cheerful ones she usual offers him.

“Are they… safe? All… of them?” she questions him, having agonizing breaths between words.

“Of course they are,” he replies peering at her as he begins to walk towards the camp. “All thanks to you, my lady. But now you have to–”

“I am… so glad… it’s you…” Her murmur blocks him. “I… wanted… to see you… again… so badly…”

Blackwall’s pace falters, for his heart almost leaps out of his chest. “My lady…”

“They… interrupted us… I have… to tell… you… something…”

He shakes his head, breaking their eye contact and quickening his steps. “You have to rest. There will be plenty of–”

“No.” She raises her tone, despite the obvious effort that it costs her. “I want… I need… to tell… you it… now…”

Why?

Why is she insisting like that?

Why can’t she wait for them to be safe and sound at the shelter?

_Is she going to–_

No, the veteran soldier would never allow her to give up on him, on them all.

And what… what does she want him to know?

Maker’s balls, he’s not ready for whatever this is.

“My lady, I–”

The Dalish touches her chilly marked hand to his bearded jaw, and he has to choke back a surprised gasps. He turns to look back at her smiling face, and his legs wobble under the intensity of her emerald gaze fixed on him.

He was wrong.

This is not a bloody nightmare – it’s a dream.

Because, Andraste have mercy on him, he did dream about Gwen’s touch for so long, though he always ended up denying it in his waking hours.

How could he not?

“Blackwall…” she continues, brushing her icy fingertips softly over his cheek. “I… like… you…”

The man gets frozen on his spot, staring at his lady agape, unable to overcome the shock for her declaration.

A dream, definitely a dream.

There is no other explanation to that.

The real Herald of Andraste could – would never say something like this, not to an unworthy man like him.

“I like… you… so much…” she repeats, her troubled voice dissolving into a gentle whisper. “Emma… vhenan.” And with that her eyelids close and her hand falls back on her hip, powerless.

* * *

The first and most important thing for a good fighter is to have a fully control over his own body, and such control starts with respiration.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

This has been always the focal point of Blackwall’s training, ever since he was a young lad, and it usually never failed him.

Not until today.

At the moment, the more he tries to breath the more he feels like he’s suffocating.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

He doesn’t know exactly how many hours has passed from the instant he found Gwen, lost in the snow. There is only confusion in his mind, flashes of memories of what happened.

The dreadful terror he felt when she fainted in his arms. The desperation when he begged her to wake up again. The perturbing anxiety when he pretty much flew to reach their camp. The unwarranted anger when Commander Cullen tried to take her body from his own arms. The shameful helplessness when Mother Giselle kicked him out of the healer’s tent after he eased Lavellan down on the cot.

Now, sitting there on the muddy ground nearby that very tent, though far away from the crowd concerned for their savior, with his head bend between his folded knees, all he can do is to wait.

And the wait is killing him.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

A fool, that’s what he is.

A blasted, infuriating, fool.

An unforgivable fool that allowed the most righteous and charming creature that the Maker created to develop feelings for him.

That should never have occurred.

He is nothing more than an old, dirty, ignoble bugger – other than a fool, of course.

He knew, he bloody knew that he was in trouble the moment he saw the Herald in the Hinterlands, and yet, like the selfish bastard he is, he couldn’t resist her call and had to follow her.

Because, no matter how much he attempted to deny it to himself, the truth is that he is crazy about Gwen Lavellan.

 _It is just devotion_ , he said to himself. _I just want to be her valiant knight, to be worthy to stand at her side as her defender._

How could he be so naïve, so stupid? How could he have kept lying like this, not only to everybody, but to himself as well?

He realizes it now that he fell for her the moment she smiled to him for the first time. And he fell for her harder each time their eyes met, each time they talked, each time they laughed together. Each time they walked close, each time they enjoyed each other’s company without saying a word. Each time she blushed embarrassed because unable to understand a pun, each time she responded frankly to one of Varric’s jokes. Each time he watched her arguing with foes, each time he admired her discussing with their allies, each time they fought side by side. Each time he simply saw her.

Nevertheless, he would have gladly spent the rest of his miserable life pining after her, longing for her attention, knowing that he’d never have more than her friendship for he is not worthy of anything else – probably not even that.

Instead, somehow he messed up everything.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

_“I like… you… so much… Emma… vhenan.”_

No, this is not possible. Gwen can’t possibly really like him. Still, she pronounced his… name. She gazed right into his eyes and said those words.

Maker’s balls.

This is wrong. This is bloody wrong.

He has to find a way to fix things up – she deserves better, she deserves so much better than this, than him.

He should have told her that immediately, but then she passed out and he felt like dying when he thought he might really lose her.

No. No. _No_.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

She will be fine, everything will be fine. It has to–

“Ser Blackwall.”

The man startles alarmed – he was so focused in his musings that he didn’t notice Mother Giselle approaching him. He springs to stand back on his feet, and inquires her, not mindful of hiding the worry in his voice.

“How is she?”

“Lady Lavellan has lost a lot of blood from her injury, and she almost froze to death. However you found her in time, so, thankfully, she will survive.”

All of sudden, the heavy weight on his chest seems disappear: she is all right, she will live.

“Oh thank the Maker!” he utters, running his hands over his face, relieved.

“All she needs are warmth and rest.”

Blackwall nods. “I’ll fetch her some broth.”

“There is no need, she’s currently asleep,” Mother Giselle explains. “Actually, she asked about you, more than once. You might go inside and keep her company.”

Andraste preserve him, there is nothing he’d want more than go there and stay with Gwen, take care of her. He can still remember her body in his arms, how light and small she was, so fragile. And now, the idea of her, trembling from the cold, alone in that unfamiliar tent…

No.

He has to stay away from her.

He can’t do the same mistake again, and he won’t.

Inhale, exhale.

“As you said, Mother, the Herald needs rest. I shall not stand in her way.” Never words tasted more bitter on the warrior’s tongue. “I’ll wait down there, and ensure that no one will disturb her.”

_Especially not me._

Inhale, exhale.

This is it.

He can still do the right thing, for her good.

And he will, no matter what it will cost him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you'll like this chapter, and the render I made inspired by it! ;)


	13. Skyhold

**12\. Skyhold**

Fenedhis lasa.

What a headache.

 _Another_ headache.

Gwen Lavellan moves slowly, one foot in front of the other that alternatively sinks in the fresh snow on the ground. She is at the helm of the contingent of the Inquisition that is now walking through the Frostback Mountains towards a mysterious destination.

Back at Haven, she fought a horde of red templars, faced an Archdemon, caused the collapse of half a mountain that engulfed her together with their enemies, fell into an unknown cave full of hostile spirits where she gained a deep wound on her leg, walked for hours through a blizzard with her bleeding injury and almost froze to death. And let's not forget about the blasted mark on her hand that keeps threatening to burn her left arm down to the bones.

Still, ever since she regained consciousness, safe in their camp, what oppresses her most are these damned migraines.

What she wouldn't give for a drop of Keeper Deshanna's special spindleweed brew: that potion tasted like despair, but, for the love of the Gods, it was a blessed panacea for all the kind of headaches. However, she could hardly find a way to contact her clan, asking for a package of bottles, from where she is now.

Actually, she doesn't even know where they all are, to begin with.

Once the Herald has been able to stand on her feet again, all the survivors of the assault at their base started to march, following Solas's guidance, and they've been currently travelling for days.

The trip is not her problem, of course – being a Dalish, Gwen is more than accustomed to long journeys, thanks to her nomadic clan.

No, the reason behind her headache comes from a different and serious matter.

The attack of Corypheus and his armies of red templars had stricken a terrible blow right to the heart of the Inquisition, and now they have to deal with the shocking aftermath.

After losing a worrisome number of good soldiers and people that day, the remaining troops are trying to carry on at the best they can, despite their injuries, whilst the common folks mourn, venting and weeping soundly, and the Advisors spend half of the time discussing or yelling at each other.

With all the noise they're making, Lavellan can't believe that the Elder One hasn't found them yet, despite the numbers he commands. Perhaps, like Mother Giselle said, he thinks that they're now helpless, scattered in this vast snowfield – or worse.

_Oh Creators, Mother Giselle._

The elf groans at the thought of the religious woman, as she massages her aching temples with her fingers. From their first meeting, the Mother immediately started to give her lectures about how her title of Herald of Andraste is vital for the people of all Thedas and how she should embrace it without questioning it.

There is no doubt that Giselle is honest in her purpose. Still, her insistence in wanting to force her Maker's truths down to Gwen's throat, ignoring the mage's own beliefs, is very irritating.

Lavellan is perfectly aware of the importance of her role, and she fully intends to go through with her task. That doesn't mean that she has to stop worshipping the Elvhen Gods and be converted to their Chantry: there is nothing holy about her, not even the blasted mark on her hand, as Corypheus readily confirmed.

So why do they all try to force her?

It must be a common thing amongst the shems, attempting to change other people's minds when they don't agree with them, and then scowling when they don't succeed in it. In fact, Mother Giselle is not the only one that acts like that: also Cassandra and Cullen frown when Gwen declares that she doesn't believe in the Maker, or Madame Vivienne, when they speak about the circles.

_Blasted shemlens._

No, wait. Not all of them.

Josephine Montilyet, for one, is different.

She has worked for years as an ambassador in different royal courts and is very familiar with Orlesian politics. She understands that restoring the Inquisition to its former glory is an impossible task without the backing of Thedas' most influential figures. So, Lady Montilyet has devoted herself in this challenge, proving to be the living embodiment of diplomacy, capable of forging relations with grace, charm and careful favors.

While her kindness and civility are often mistaken for naivety, on the contrary Josie is probably the smartest and cleverest person of their organization. She never gives herself to coercion, nevertheless she always gets what she wants, thanks to her commendable attitudes.

For all these reasons, Lavellan thinks very highly of her – actually, she does really like her.

Another good example is Dorian Pavus.

The Tevinter man joined their group only recently, yet, he and Gwen bonded almost immediately – their shared experience in that dark future they witnessed in Redcliffe had probably facilitated the process. The two of them have a lot of common: both of them are away from their home, committed to the cause of making the world a better place; they're introverted and reserved, though Dorian shields himself behind subtle humor.

He is handsome, witty and charming, besides being a very powerful and skilled mage, and apparently he is well aware of his strengths. But Gwen knows better than that, for she somehow sees in him the same insecurity and sadness she feels herself. Perhaps, one day, they'll overcome them, together.

And then, there is him. _Blackw–_

The Dalish's musings get interrupted by a well-known female voice. "Lady Lavellan!"

She halts and turns to greet Audrey that is strolling towards her, very focused.

"My lady, drink this." She orders as she pushes a leather flask in the other woman's hands.

When Gwen woke up in the healer's tent, after spending days unconscious on a cot, the first person that she saw was the other elf, uncomfortably sitting asleep on a stool beside her. Apparently, while the Herald was lost in the storm, Audrey has been part of the rescue groups that looked for her. Nothing could convince her to stay and help setting up the camp: she had to find her lady.

After a long, relieved cry, that started when she acknowledged that Lavellan was safe, the Orlesian girl recollected herself quickly, and promptly declared herself Gwen's caretaker. From that moment she never tore her attentive eyes from her lady, providing her water, food and medications, continuously.

"Thank you, Da'len." The Dalish takes a sip of what turns out to be a healing potion. Well, it isn't Deshanna's miraculous concoction. Still, it should lessen her headache anyway, at least for a few hours.

By the Dread Wolf, the way Audrey always knows what she needs and when she needs it, will never cease to amaze her.

"Your scowl reached a deadly level, my lady," the girl promptly explains, like she read in Lavellan's mind. "You're going through another bad migraine."

The Herald nods, even though it was not a question. "It's all right, Audrey. I've had it worse, you don't have to worry about it."

"I can't help that, and you know it, my lady."

Indeed she does, as much as she also knows that it is useless to require to not be addressed as 'lady'. Gwen tried countless times to explain her that she doesn't consider her a servant, that they're equal, but the brunette doesn't seem to listen to her speeches. So, 'Lady Lavellan' had to give up and accept her umpteenth title.

Truth to be told, eventually she started warming up to it, thanks to someone else that keeps stubbornly calling like that as well.

" _My lady."_

Those two words become an endearing term if they're pronounced by Warden Blackwall. When it comes to his voice, with that sultry baritone tone and that sinfully sexy Marcher accent… anything, _anything_ sounds like caresses to Gwen's pointed ears – Creators, it makes her knees go weak with a simple salute!

Sensing her cheeks blush, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then she turns her head to have a peak to the large group of people marching behind her, but, unfortunately, she can't locate the Warden in the middle of the crowd.

After the fall of Haven, as the Herald slowly wandered in the storm, she struggled a great deal not to surrender to the freezing cold and the terrible pain overwhelming all her body. She never has been the kind of woman that gives up, especially not now, when there are so many people relying on her.

Therefore, she clung like a lifeline to the compelling need that burned within her chest during the last days: confessing her feelings to Blackwall.

She kept thinking about his reassuring behavior, and how she finds herself safe and relaxed at his side; about his warm blue eyes, and how she uses to drown in his stare; about his husky laugh, and how she shivers delighted when she hears it. About his long disheveled hair, and how she'd like to sink her fingers in it; about his impressive beard, and how she'd love to feel it against her own skin; about his strong calloused hands, and how she'd writhe under their touch.

Heat begins to pool into Lavellan's stomach, in a way that never happened to her before. She had her share of sexual encounters, back when she was with her clan, though they were more like a way to scratch an itch. She never really fell for someone, to the point of being like a thirsty person lost in the desert when it comes to her partners – not until now.

She _craves_ for Blackwall, in an overwhelming way that still amazes her. However, she has no intention to fight it, on the contrary she wants to follow it through, no matter how many obstacles she bumps into – not even a blasted storm that threatened to freeze her to death.

It's been days since the last time they talked, when he rescued her. Well, it wasn't exactly a real chat, given that she passed out soon after he took her in his arms. But it was enough for her to forget all about pain and cold and everything else: he found her, he saved her, she was happy.

" _Yes, my lady. It's me. Thank the Maker I found you, my lady. You have to worry no more, I'll take care of you."_

Despite her foggy state, she could clearly notice that the Warden was on the verge of tears as he spoke to her. In that moment she had the confirmation that he cared for her as much as she cared for him. Therefore, she had to tell him the truth.

" _I like you so much. Emma vhenan."_

Sadly, she didn't manage to stay awake enough to hear his reply, the exhaustion and the injuries finally defeating her. Then, while she was recovering inside the healer's tent, Blackwall was too busy helping the survivors to come and visit her. Gwen can't hide that it hurt her, though she knows that she can't afford to be selfish, now more than ever.

Anyway, she's not going to give up: she will surely have the longed answer from the man of her dreams.

Once more time, she tries to glimpse him in the vast group at her back. And there he is, the Warden lively speaking with Sera.

 _That's it, it's my moment now._ The Dalish slows down her pace, turning towards the two friends. Just a few steps and–

"Lethallan!"

Gwen jumps, surprised at Solas's call – she has not noticed that her mage friend has surpassed her, and he's now gesturing her to join him on an upland.

She sighs – her talk with Blackwall will have to wait, _again_. There are more important things she has to care about at the moment, like Solas himself told her days ago.

" _Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow. By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed you. Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build… grow…"_

And there it is, in the immense valley in front of them: Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaand… I'm back! :D
> 
> I apologize for updating this fic with this terribly long delay, but a lot of stuff happened to me lately, and I got quite overwhelmed by them.
> 
> However, I finally managed to restart writing, so I hope I won't let you wait too much for next chapter!
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and support, and, if you want to, drop me a review. I'd love to know your opinion about how this story is going on! ;)


	14. The Inquisitor

**13\. The Inquisitor**

"Thank you for your help, ser Blackwall."

"The pleasure is all mine," the warrior replies while he drops off the last box the surgeon pointed to him. "Do not hesitate to ask for more, whenever you need it."

The woman nods to him and then disappears inside one of the tents in the lower courtyard that hosts the injured people.

Blackwall stretches his tired arms over his head, rolling both his shoulders. They reached Skyhold a few days ago, and they never stopped working to set things up in the base.

Words of their new settlement immediately reached the corners of Thedas, bringing supplies along with new recruits willing to join them. At this rate, this old elven fortress will become a pilgrimage, and it would be a great thing, if not for the fact that the more it gains popularity, the more are the chances that Corypheus will come after them again.

The warrior stares up at the high walls that surround them: here they are protected, and their numbers are growing to the point that they could put up a fight here, though this threat is far beyond the war they anticipated.

Still, they're all full of hope for the future, thanks to their new proclaimed leader: Inquisitor Gwen Lavellan.

" _I will lead us against the enemy, and I will be an ambassador for the elves around Thedas, because the Inquisition is for everyone. But I am also a mage, and with fear running rampant, people have to see one fighting for what is right. So, I'll defeat Corypheus standing with them, not over them."_

The Advisors' wise choice to designate her for that important role didn't surprise Blackwall at all, for he knows very well her worth – probably more than anyone else. In fact, her inspirational speech was exactly what those who survived the fall of Haven needed, to get back the courage to go on with their task. His lady was born to be their guide during these dark times.

No, wait. She is not _his_ lady, he should definitely to stop to address her in that way – actually, he should not interact with her _at all_.

The bearded man shakes his head, sighing: easier said than done. Gwen had begun to haunt his thoughts from the first moment he saw her, and his obsession with her keeps getting worse and worse.

That's it, it is just obsession – a shameful, unhealthy obsession, that he must end, once and for all. But how? How could he break her hold on his heart, that has deep roots within his chest?

Blackwall is not a man deserving of a righteous creature like the Herald, and yet…

" _I like… you… so much… Emma… vhenan."_

Maker's balls, it's been days from her confession, after which he swore to stay as much away as possible from her, to protect her from himself. Nevertheless, her words have been branded with fire on his soul, and they'll remain there forever.

The despicable worse part of him spurs him to give up to his deepest desires – she wants him, he wants her, so why not?

No, no, no. It's wrong, bloody wrong. He should probably leave the Inquisition for good, going back to what he was doing before. Still, here he can do so much more, making a difference for the world. This is too important to let his selfishness ruin it all.

Luckily, after Lavellan recovered from her injuries, he managed to avoid meeting her, both of them being so busy helping the others. And now, she has become the Inquisitor, a role that makes her even more out of reach. It should help him to maintain his oath, to keep her away from him.

Then why, in Andraste's name, is he feeling so lost, and confused?

The warrior closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. Fresh air, perhaps a walk – yes, he could use a walk to clear his head.

* * *

The majestic ramparts of Skyhold offer an amazing view of the frozen valley underlying. They were one of the very first things that Blackwall examined when the Inquisition established in here, and he was not disappointed by them. Now they have a real chance to resist their enemy, to avoid another terrible defeat, like it occurred at Haven.

The veteran soldier leans against the parapet, his gaze fixed on the horizon, so that he doesn't notice the delicate sound of two small feet hurrying towards his direction.

"Hey, Blackwall."

Startled, it takes all his strength to the man to suppress a surprised gasp at that call. He doesn't need to turn to know whose that sweet voice is – he'd be able to recognize it in the middle of a heated battleground, with the clang of swords hitting armors, the exultations of the winners and the cries of pain of the losers, echoing all around him.

Maker's balls, he's not prepared to meet her. For a split second, he ponders the possibility of running away, feigning not to have heard her coming. But it would be miserable of him, other than disrespectful of her – he could never offend her like that. So, he straightens himself up, and, resigned, swallows hard as he shifts to face her.

"My lady Inquisitor," he says, ducking his head gallantly.

Gwen is standing a few steps away from him, her beautiful lips stretched in a lovely smile. "There you are. I've been looking for you."

_Fuck._

The moment he fears most is finally arrived: she surely intend to talk about what happened on the snow, when he found her… doesn't she?

"I was– I _am_ assessing the state of our fortifications." He twists back to stare beyond the walls – that's it, he has to keep it professional. "From this location, we'll be able to see Corypheus coming from miles away."

"And we'll be ready for him," she readily replies. "He's not going to get the better of us again."

Perhaps he was wrong, after all – she might be here only for business.

What if the fuss he made about those words she said to him before fainting in his arms… was it all for nothing?

What if her _"I like you"_ didn't mean what Blackwall thought – not in the way he thought, at least?

Maker, that would be such a great relief for him… right?

"We lost good soldiers that day… loyal men and women." He continues, trying to ignore that little voice in the back of his head that screams to him that he's only deceiving himself, that no, it wouldn't be a relief. "And when he came after you, he really made it personal."

He is her protector, her guardian, and that's all he has, he _wants_ to be, nothing more. When Lavellan was lost in the snow, the anguish he felt for her loss was heart shattering, because he failed his task, he failed her. Yet, he won't do it a second time, that's for sure.

With this new certainty lifting him up, the warrior is ready to gaze at her again, showing her his resolve. "I swear I'll take that twisted bastard down, even if I have to die to do it." He affirms, slamming his right fist on the palm of his other hand.

Suddenly, Gwen's cheerful expression disappears, changing into a deadly scowl – the scariest he ever saw on her, given that she does frown quite a lot. "I'm not losing anyone else to Corypheus. Especially not _you_."

Blackwall's stomach twitches at her words, guilt and fear gripping it painfully: then her _"I like you"_ did really mean something.

The Herald is a beautiful, kind, strong, smart and self-reliant woman. She could have the world at her feet, and she does, somehow. Why should she fall for someone like him? It makes no sense at all, and yet there they are.

Bloody, cursed, useless piece of wretched scoundrel he is. He screwed everything up from the start, and all he did was escape from his responsibilities – _again_. Now his beloved lady has to pay for it, because there is no way on Thedas he could reciprocate her sentiment, no matter how desperately he wants to.

"You can't afford to think I'm special. I'm a soldier, no different than any soldier lost at Haven." Each syllable tastes like poison on his tongue, worsened by the stern and bothered look on Lavellan's face. "I'm fond of you, it's true, but we can't let this go any further."

 _Fond of her._ That's a ridiculous understatement.

He did his best to deceive himself, calling this devotion, obsession or else, though the truth is that his feelings for her are way beyond that. That blasted moment when she passed out in his arms, he realized that he had fallen for her, hard, and even if he willed so badly to fight against it, he just couldn't: all his unworthy being belongs to her.

However, he can't let her know it, for she deserves an honest and upright person at her side – nothing he could ever be. So he has to put an end to everything before it's too late.

"This – whatever you want _this_ to be – is _impossible_." He articulates the last word slowly, emphasizing it, to leave no doubt about its legitimacy.

His assertion clearly unsettles the Dalish, a shade of concern clouding her emerald eyes. "Why is it impossible?" Her voice trembles slightly, yet enough to make the man wanting to stab himself, repeatedly. "I– I like you, I already told you that. Perhaps that was the wrong moment, still, I meant it." She takes a step towards him, uncertain. "I like you so much, Blackwall. And after all we've experienced together, I thought that you also might–"

"My lady, don't." He cuts her off, drawing away from her. He can't let her get close, repeating those things to him, or his determination would deteriorate into dust. "You're the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste." And he is just a fool whose sole skill is to fuck things up for good. "Even now there are people flocking to your banner, ready to serve – to die. We must remain focused on the task at hand."

Hurt is written all over Gwen's face. "I'm not what they say I am. I never asked them to believe".

"But they do, and it's too late to go back. Whoever you were is gone. They believe you're the Herald because they need to. Without that hope, all that's left is despair."

"Liking you doesn't prevent me to carry on with my task – it never did, it never will." Her eyebrows are painfully wrinkled, though it doesn't seem that she intends to give up on him. "Blackwall, please…"

_No, stop with it, my lady. I can't. I beg you._

The warrior gulps through clenched teeth, his heart aching at knowledge that hers is probably bleeding as well. Noticing his hesitation, Lavellan attempts to approach him again, her right hand shyly raised towards his cheek.

Maker's ball, what is he doing? Why do they have to go through this? He does earn every single hurtful second of it, not her.

"My lady, we're both bound by duty. Our lives aren't ours to live. Don't make this harder than it has to be." With that, he bites the inside of his cheek and gathers all his strength to turn around and leave the ramparts before she would reach him.

"Blackwall! Wait!"

Her desperate tone makes him flinch, but he doesn't stop. He keeps walking, his limbs heavy and weary. Each step he makes away from her is like a kick into his guts: all his willpower is going to fall to pieces soon, so he rushes down the stairs, not daring to glance back at his lady.

He is aware he just wounded her deeply, yet he had to do it – the sooner the better, at least for her. As for him… it doesn't mind. He will carry on suffering, because this is what he is supposed to do.

_Andraste, please, watch over your Herald. She deserves only the best, and that is definitely not me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so... finally the infamous Ramparts scene is there! I still remember the utter shock I felt the first time I played it: Damn it Blackwall!
> 
> Please, drop me a review if you want, and let me know what you think about this chapter and how the fic is going on! ;)


	15. Meet the Champion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, I'm back! ^_^
> 
> I have to apologize because I stopped updating this fic. Long story short, life is a bitch. I've been through some rough problems, to the point that I even ended up deleting almost all my accounts in social medias, like Tumblr and DeviantArt. I really needed to get rid of all the negativity in there: life is already hard, I couldn't carry on dealing also with the maliciousness and all the bullshit people often write, hiding themselves behind a nickname, a monitor.
> 
> Still, I didn't have the heart to delete also this account, and my FFnet one (I just changed the name, from 'Sharilin' to 'LadyStitch', because I wanted a fresh new start, to forget about Tumblr). I was hoping that I'd find the strength to keep writing, both this and my Mass Effect fics, and so I did – though I did it awfully slowly.
> 
> Thing is, I have quite a few new chapters already written and beta-tested, but I didn't find the heart to restart posting them – don't know why. I still want my Gwen and her beloved Blackwall's story to be told to all of you, because they're one of my biggest OTP ever. And yet, I was afraid that it would take me forever to write it, because of my new awful job that drains out almost all my strength and my will to do things. So, I didn't want to let you down again, posting the new chapters and then disappearing again.
> 
> Then, lately, this story got new reviews and kudos both here and on FFnet, and they gave me life and made me so happy you have no idea. That's why I decided to try and restart updating it, hoping to find my mojo back to continue the chapter I'm actually working on (chapter 21!).
> 
> So, I wanted to thank you all for reading, liking and commenting my story, even after all the time I spent away, and to let you know that your interest in it makes me giddy and enthusiastic again – it means a great deal, believe me.
> 
> Now I'll leave you with the new chapter, hoping you'll like it.
> 
> Lots of love, **Sharilin** / **LadyStitch** ♥

**14. Meet the Champion**

“Good morning, _Inquisitor_.”

“Oh that’s her, the _Herald of Andraste_!”

“May the Maker watch over you, _Inquisitor_.”

“Blessing upon you, _Herald of Andraste_.”

“Lady _Inquisitor_!”

“ _Herald of Andraste_!”

Every day, it takes forever to Gwen to cross the country yards of Skyhold: all the people, from simple peasants to soldiers and minor nobles, flail around her because they want to be noticed by the hero of the moment. And the above-mentioned hero hates all of it.

Levellan reluctantly accepted her role, as Herald first and then Inquisitor, but if she’d known that she’d signed up to become an icon for all those fanatic shems, she’d never have done it.

Mother Giselle must be on top of the world now, given that what she forecasted has become reality. Fenedhis, she already has the weight of the whole world on her shoulders, she definitely doesn’t need the pressure of the obsessed pious as well.

When she finally manages to reach the stairs of the ramparts, the elf sighs in relief – at least, the guards that Cullen personally chose to patrol up there are dedicated to their job and only to it. She starts to climb, heading towards the Commander’s office; although, as soon as she reaches the top, shivers start to run down her spine, while the painful memory of what occurred in there just a few days ago fights to resurface in the front lines of her mind.

No, Gwen can’t afford to be sad, not now, during the daylight – she has to wait for the night and the privacy of her brand new luscious quarters to drown in her sorrow.

Thus she swallows the lump in her throat and resumes her walk, just in time to see a soldier running quickly towards her. With a swift jump, the Dalish avoids the collision, whereas the man doesn’t even notice her, too focused on whatever makes him move that fast.

Before he disappears down the same stairs she came from, Lavellan recognizes him: it’s Scout Jim, one of their messengers. Why is he so agitated and… flustered?

She doesn’t have the time to wonder about the answer because her attention is caught by strange noises coming from her left. A few steps ahead and she can glimpse two shemlens leaned against the parapet. Surprisingly, those are sounds of lips meeting lips, then the reason why behind Jim’s embarrassment becomes clear – Cullen is making out with an unknown brunette.

Good sense suggests to the Inquisitor to follow the scout’s example and leave the couple in peace, yet her body doesn’t respond to her commands, her feet stuck on that spot, unable to move.

The smooch finishes, and the blonde ex-templar murmurs to her companion, shyly. “I’m sorry… that was… um… really nice.”

“You don’t regret it, do you?” the girl asks, her voice wavering.

“No! No. Not at all.” And with that the Commander leans to kiss her again.

Finally, somehow, Gwen finds the strength to turn back and begins to run away from there. As she rushes, a chilly grip takes hold of her heart, ripping the wind out of her lungs. She stops, clinging to the wall and gasping for air.

By the Dread Wolf, why? That isn’t fair.

That should have happened to _her_ , that cursed day.

She is the one supposed to make out on the ramparts, with the man she likes.

Instead, there she is, panicking alone and with a bleeding hollow inside her chest.

All because of Blackwall’s crushing rejection.

With her forehead leaned against the coarse surface, she wraps her arms around herself, trying to calm down her tremors and her erratic breathings, with no success.

 _“You can’t afford to think I’m special. I’m a soldier, no different than any soldier lost at Haven. I’m fond of you, it’s true, but we can’t let this go any further. This – whatever you want this to be – is_ impossible _.”_

The Warden’s words haunt her since the moment he pronounced them, and, Creators, they hurt so bad.

 _Impossible_. If there is something that her last adventures taught to the Herald, is that nothing is really impossible in this life – it is up to the person to struggle to make something work. That does mean that there is no interest in Blackwall to even _try_ to be with her.

How could have Lavellan been so naive? She completely misread his intentions, deceiving herself each time he’s spoken to her, each time he’s been gentle with her, each time he’s smiled at her.

_“You’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Even now there are people flocking to your banner, ready to serve – to die. We must remain focused on the task at hand.”_

Gwen turns and lets herself slide on the ground, her back propped against the wall and her legs tucked into her chest with her arms enveloping them.

She was wrong on every level. She’s been so sure about the fact that the Warden was different from the other shems. Still, he proved to be another person that was interested in her just for her presumed holiness.

This realization is what really destroyed her, more than anything else. He never cared about _her_ , he only wanted to be sure that the new symbol of their blasted credence was safe, for the sake of all the believers.

_“It’s too late to go back. Whoever you were is gone. They believe you’re the Herald because they need to. Without that hope, all that’s left is despair. We’re both bound by duty. Our lives aren’t ours to live. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”_

To the Void with him! She is who she always has been, no silly religious title would ever change that. Why can’t he see past it? Why can’t he see _her_ , the way she is?

Lavellan touches her icy fingers to the tattoos on her cheekbones. Keeper Deshanna always told her that she had those specific marks for a reason, that the Goddess had specific plans for her.

_Mythal, All-Mother and Protector of the Elvhen, what is the design you had set up for me? Why do I have to suffer so much through it?_

She has lived a righteous life, always following the rules, fighting the evil, helping the weak, respecting the Gods. Being the ‘girl chosen by the Creators’, and the Keeper’s First, has been an important weight on the girl’s shoulder. A weight that she carried proudly, yet that didn’t help her socialize with the other elves. Her parents’ death also scarred her deeply, making her the solitary and severe woman she is now. Therefore, the intimate relationships she built during that time were so rare, she could almost count them on the fingers of one hand.

The young mage always preferred being surrounded by nature, and animals used to come to her like they were mesmerized by her. Spending a lot of time amongst the hallas, she ended up meeting Rhonir, the young son in charge of the clan’s herd. The two became great friends, thanks to the passion they shared for those charming creatures. Consequently, when they grew up into two lively teenagers, their rapport changed into something more: they experimented together what desire and sexual fulfillment were – what it meant to become adults. Later on, they chose to follow different paths, both as individuals and as components of their tribe, so they parted on friendly terms.

After Rhonir, there have been Athlen, Zathris, Daenir, and perhaps someone else, though none of them have been more than a shallow diversion for Gwen, a way to relieve the stress with pleasant physical activities.

Blackwall is the first man that has achieved the impossible task of breaking the barriers that protected her heart and scratched the surface of it. A lot of Dalish stories talks about love and passion, but the Herald never thought she was capable of feeling any of them, and she was ok with it.

Now, there she is, pining for a shemlen no less, one who doesn’t even return her interest.

Pathetic – this is what she is.

 _Fenedhis lasa_. She has to get a hold of herself, she can’t allow anyone to see her like that. She is the damned Inquisitor, the leader of all these folks. She has to prove to be strong and unyielding, despite everything and everyone.

With a great effort, Lavellan stands on her trembling knees, her left hand still supporting her on the rough stone. Her head is slightly spinning, and while she begins to inhale deeply, a familiar yet unwelcome voice startles her.

“Finally back on your feet, ah?”

 _Creators, no! Not her, please_. Disappointed, Gwen turns to look at the roof of the tavern nearby, where there’s Sera, swinging her legs playfully over the edge.

“Bet your precious elfy arse can’t stand bein’ pressed on the filthy ground, right?”

It’s official: Fen’Harel is clearly toying with her, because otherwise she couldn’t fathom the reasons behind her bad luck. Of all the people in this huge fortress, why should it be her the one to find Gwen when she is so shaken up and distressed?

The Herald never got on with the young archer, despite her countless attempts to establish some kind of civilized relationship with her. Sera despises everything that the other elf represents, being her a Dalish and a mage, and she doesn’t miss any given chance to mock Lavellan and denigrate her culture and her abilities.

Usually, she manages to dismiss the friend of Red Jenny quietly, mostly even ignoring her, though today she’s not in the right state of mind to act heedlessly – not to mention the brotherly relationship she has with Blackwall and how much this disturbs Gwen further.

“Yeah, whatever,” she replies, hoping to discourage the blonde girl from talking to her further, and she starts to walk away.

“Oh c’mon!” Sera stops her. “You can’t be so shocked just ‘cause you saw Cully-wully all smoochy with that Andy girl.”

“Andy?”

“Or was it Randy? Well, pbtht! She’s kinda cute, too bad she’s busy canoodling with the boring soldier.”

 _Andy_. All of sudden, the Inquisitor realizes that the human with Cullen was actually Andromeda Melody Sylvanis, a skilled apostate that she saved from certain death by the hands of Red Templars in the Hinterlands weeks ago. Escaped from the Circle of Magi of Ostwick, she proved to be proficient in the Inferno school of spells, so they gladly recruited her in their ranks.

That means that their Commander, the unwavering man of the Chantry and upright ex-templar, has fallen for a mage? That is remarkable indeed.

“Guess Cully-wully knows stuff. Lots of men under him. Needs a woman over him. Because positions.” The archer laughs, making Lavellan scoff, annoyed.

Creators, she is so fucking done. With all the distressing thoughts crossing her head at the moment, she definitely doesn’t need Sera adding stuff to the pile, like men and women doing–

“Wait wait wait… Did you just put _Cullen_ and _woman_ in the same sentence?”

Both the elves jump surprised as an unknown person joins their conversation, a shock that almost drives the blonde one to fall from the roof.

A beautiful and pale female human, wearing a peculiar armor and a mage staff on her back, approaches them. She has curly chestnut brown hair gathered in a loose bun, with messy bangs falling over a pair of blue eyes, a straight nose marked with a red smear across it and full crimson lips.

“Is it for real? I mean _that_ Cullen?” the stranger continues.

“Y–yeah?” Gwen answers, staring at her agape, while Sera sneaks away, mumbling something about ‘mages’ and ‘raspberries’.

With a masculine sexy chuckle, another man appears at their side. “Did you see, Darcy? Once again you scared a poor girl.”

He’s a very attractive elf, with silvery white hair and bright green eyes, his bronze skin adorned with fascinating tattoos running all over his body – at least, on the visible parts.

“I did nothing!” The brunette pouts and pokes him on his arm. “I just wanted to–”

“Darcy! Fenris!” Varric is rushing towards the group, calling their name through gritted teeth. “What are you doing down here? I told you to wait on the ramparts!”

“Don’t look at me, dwarf. I just followed her,” the man replies, shaking his head amused.

“Varric!” Darcy claps her hands excited. “Did you hear that? Cullen has a _girlfriend_!”

Lavellan is still frozen on her spot. What on Mythal’s name is happening here? Who are these people? And why are they mocking the Commander?

Not that the whole thing isn’t funny, to be honest. She always respected the ex-templar for his devotion to their cause and his irrepressible commitment to his job, still she finds him too serious – and coming from her, that means really something.

“What? Curly?” the dwarf seems to be as astonished as his friends. “ _I-go-to-sleep-snuggling-a-statue-of-Andraste_ Cullen? That can’t be true!”

“I know right?” Darcy sniggers. “Oh man, you did invite me here just in time. Will he finally lose his virginity? Shall we make him a cake, to congratulate him?”

A strangled gasp escapes from Gwen’s lips, so that the trio finally pay attention to her.

“Oh, Inquisitor, I’m so sorry.” Varric apologizes. “I didn’t–”

“Wow, _you’re_ the Inquisitor?” the unknown woman practically pounces on her, grabbing her hands. “So we meet at last! I heard fabulous things about you.”

Once again, Darcy’s behavior amazes Lavellan, whose mouth opens though no words come out from it. For a moment, the time seems to stop, with Varric and the unknown elf observing the two ladies, worried, while the Dalish stares right into the brunette’s blue eyes, and what she finds in there soothes her: intelligence, honesty, braveness, and also a lot pain of suffering –  yet, in the end, there is joy and love. It’s like she’s seeing her own image in those shiny orbs. Does it means that one day she’ll find some happiness as well?

Unexpectedly, she begins to giggle. It’s a spontaneous, hearty, giggle like she didn’t have in ages. Corypheus, Mother Giselle, Blackwall… all her agonies and anxieties get set aside, at least for a while. Who would have known that all she needed was a laughter?

Without a second thought, the other woman joins her cackling, and the mood immediately lightens up.

“Well, I didn’t imagine it to occur like this… but here we are.” Varric talks, as soon as they calm down. “Inquisitor, meet the Champion of Kirkwall, Darcy Hawke. And this is her companion, Fenris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I had the chance to introduce my beloved **_Darcy Hawke_** to the public! I know, canonically the Champion goes to Skyhold alone, but, honestly, it makes no sense to my Darcy to go there without her inseparable lover **_Fenris_** – so, fuck canon! :D
> 
> It is also my great pleasure to have super-special guest star in my story, that is **_Andromeda Melody Sylvanis_** , aka **_Andromeda Melody Trevelyan_** in my friend **Kaidansbioticapprentice** 's canon world. Given that I never romanced Cullen, I thought it would be nice to have her Inquisitor in Gwen's world as well, along with another couple of other OCs you'll meet soon.
> 
> So, I want to thank her for given me the permission to use her Andromeda in my story, and, along with the lovely **Saraportela** and **Galtori** , for their precious work of beta-testing. Even after all this timeyou never stopped believing in me, I love you girls! ♥
> 
> And, finally, I want to thank you again - you that are reading this fic, whether you're following it from the beginning or you're just here for the first time. I'd love to know your opinion, because kudos and comments are my fuel!


	16. Interlude III

**15\. Interlude III**

**_Darcy Hawke and Fenris_ **

_A private dialogue between the two lovers._

F: Darcy, if you take another step towards the fireplace, you will set yourself on fire.

D: Shiiiiit! I can’t understand how people can actually live in this keep. I’m bloody freezing!

F: We’re in the middle of a snowy mountain range, between Orlais and Ferelden. What did you expect?

D: I don’t know! I expected not to die by cold? How can you possibly be so calm? You come from Tevinter, and you lived in Kirkwall… You should be suffering like I am!

F: I’m no fire mage like you, Darcy. I have no problem with a little bit of snow. How you did survive the first 20 years of your life in Ferelden will always be a mystery to me.

D: The weather in Lothering was like sea breeze, compared to here. Andraste’s flaming sneakers, Varric definitely lied when he told us this was the most comfortable room of the keep. I will have him pay for it with his chest hair!

F: _(Chuckles)_ Can’t wait to see it happening.

D: At least he was right about the Herald of Andraste: she is special indeed.

F: Don’t tell me. You’ve been all over her the whole day, with heart eyes and excited chirpings. You got me quite worried you’d dump me for her.

D: _(Laughs)_ I can take no blame, I have a thing for beautiful elves with sparkling green eyes and without sense of humor.

F: _(Scoffs)_ Yeah, sure.

D: Besides, you don’t have to worry about it. Her interest is entirely focused on another person.

F: Oh, really?

D: Come on, all those questions she asked me about the Grey Wardens… She looks so concerned about their fate!

F: And…?

D: And so, it happens that there is a dashing Grey Warden within the Inquisitor’s inner circle.

F: Dashing, no less?

D: According to Varric, he’s the ‘knight in shiny armor’ type of guy, with a hero complex and a mysterious shady past he doesn’t like to talk about.

F: _(Laughs)_ The perfect character for a trash novel. The dwarf must be on the top of the world for it.

D: Actually, I recall him complaining about something like… _(Trying to replicate Varric’s voice)_ ‘The sodding curse of kind-hearted women falling for broody men!’

F: _(Snarls)_ Blasted dwarf.

D: _(Giggles)_ Anyway, I felt really sorry for Gwen. I wish I could tell her more about the Wardens, though I do not have any other information. If only Carver wouldn’t be that stubborn, keeping all the secrecy.

F: Your brother doesn’t do it as act of spite. It’s the order–

D: Alright, alright, I get it. Still… I don’t know, I just want to help the Inquisitor.

F: Why did she affect you that way? As much as you are always very compassionate, always trying to support anyone in need, this time… This time it’s different.

D: _(Sighs)_ Yes, it is. I can’t explain it… It’s like– I can feel what she feels. She found herself all alone, away from her homeland, in the middle of a blasted war that has nothing to do with her. That sense of isolation, of impotence, when everyone is depending on you to guide them, to save them… And she doesn’t even have a member of her family or a close friend at her side, to support her.

F: Darcy…

D: I have been lucky, I had Carver, Varric and our other fellows… and you. What about her?

F: Well, she has Varric as well. I’m sure the dwarf is doing a good job of looking after her.

D: Yes, you’re right. _(Giggles)_ Surely, he is struggling a great deal to make her understand his jokes. Oh Maker, why do you elves have to be so serious?

F: Can’t talk on the Inquisitor’s behalf, but for me, it’s matter of survival at the side of such… brilliant comedians like you and Mr Tethras.

D: _(Snorts)_ Talking about survival, what about you helping me to overcome this bloody cold with some entertaining physical activities?

F: About time you finally got to it. _(Growls sensually)_

D: _(Moans)_


	17. The Herald’s rest

**16\. The Herald’s rest**

_Skyhold – Tavern._

« Sera was never an agreeable girl  
Her tongue tells tales of rebellion.  
But she was so fast,  
And quick with her bow,  
No one quite knew where she came from. »

“No, Sera, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will!”

“No, Sera. You can’t go there and prank the Commander of our forces. Especially not in a delicate moment like this, when the Inquisition is settling down in this new fortress.”

“I know, right? Perfect! Eheheheh!”

« Sera was never quite the quietest girl  
Her attacks are loud and they’re joyful.  
But she knew the ways of nobler men,  
And she knew how to enrage them. »

Blackwall heaves a long, frustrated sigh, as the funny song of the bard echoes in the air, and his young friend keeps laughing at her own ‘cunning’ ideas.

“Look, now Cully-wully is all blushy and dreamy-eyes at his Andy-mandy,” she explains. “He probably wouldn’t notice a trap even if he’d sit his arse on it.”

“So, what’s the point in making pranks if he doesn’t rise to the bait?”

“Right. Because– He–” she stammers, uncertain. “Ooooooh, well pbtht! You’re an arse-faced killjoy, Beardy! You’re hanging out with your _Lady Inky_ way too much – you’re missing all the fun!”

« She would always like to say,  
“Why change the past,  
When you can own this day?”  
Today she will fight,  
To keep her way.  
She’s a rogue and a thief,  
And she’ll tempt your fate. »

Suddenly, Sera slams her fist on their table. “Ugh! Horse-shite! I already told Maryden to stop with this plenty of times!”

With that, the elf pounces the poor woman and begins to growl at her, interrupting her show. Blackwall’s first impulse is to go there and grab his friend by force, though the bard’s amused expression stops him – she probably did it on purpose because she enjoys joking with the blonde girl.

Shaking his head, he gets back to his ale and his gloomy musings.

Sera is right, his bad mood derives from lady Lavellan, but not for the reasons she thinks. Despite her usual frowny attitude, Gwen is nice and funny, in her own special way.

No, the problem is that he actually _isn’t_ spending time with her anymore.

That infamous day, when he had to reject her on the ramparts, had been the last one he actually _met_ her at all.

Blasted fool, what did he expect? He broke her heart; of course she wouldn’t want to talk to him.

And not just talk: she left for Val Royeaux a couple of days ago, taking along with her Cassandra, Varric and Dorian. This has been the very first time ever since Blackwall joined the Inquisition that she didn’t ask him to accompany her for a mission – and, let’s be honest, it would probably be one of many.

His biggest fear has become reality: he cannot be at Lady Lavellan’s side to protect her. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the Seeker, who is a strong and very capable warrior. The problem is that she is not _him_.

In his shameful stupidity, he believed he was unworthy, that he could not be with the Herald of Andraste. And yet he wished to at least be near her, relishing her precious presence, and feel helpful as her defender.

Maker, but he was wrong.

What will be of him, now?

Of course here at Skyhold there are countless different things he can do to help the Inquisition, nevertheless, he is a soldier, born to be in battle.

Perhaps he could offer his services to Cull–

“Hello there, handsome.” A husky, female voice breaks Blackwall out of his stupor. He turns to stare at the newcomer standing beside him, a human brunette. “It’s such a shame that a sexy man like you is all alone,” she states, offering him a seductive grin. “You should be having a beer in the presence of gorgeous ladies, such as myself.”

The warrior scoffs, unimpressed. This is not the first time the woman approached him here at the tavern. She had arrived at Skyhold a couple of weeks ago, claiming to be a powerful mage, an apostate from before the rebellion of the Circles, and offering her skills to the Inquisition. But it seems like she never steps foot outside the Herald’s rest, where she spends all her time drinking and flirting with every person she meets – Blackwall included.

“Good evening to you–” Oh shit, what’s her blasted name? He can’t possibly recall it.

“Aren’t you cute? Pretending you don’t remember my name. Don’t worry, though. Let’s go somewhere else more private, and you’ll be screaming ‘Clara’ within ten minutes… or less.”

 _Clara_ , of course.

Maker’s balls, he never forgets a lady’s name, no matter if he was interested in her or not. Is he really getting old?

“So, shall we go?” the apostate asks, her head bending towards the wooden stairs.

The bearded man laughs, his attention focused on his half-full tankard, playing dumb in front of her explicit intentions.

Clara doesn’t give up at his bluff; instead she grips his right shoulder and force him to twist towards her. “Come on, Warden, stop trying to resist me.” Taking advantage of his new position, she sits on his lap, her face a few inches from his ear. “We both know how much you want me to ride you into oblivion.”

That’s it – he is indeed getting old after all. The man he used to be once wouldn’t have waited for her to finish her line that he’d be already picking her up on his shoulder and rushing towards the first available room he’d find.

Instead, her filthy words have absolutely no positive effect on him. Not to mention how having her all over him on his small and uncomfortable chair is getting on his nerves.

Doing his best not to act harshly, he pushes her gently away from him, onto her feet. “I can assure you, you haven’t the slightest idea of what I really want; I want to finish my drink – alone. Still, I am sure there are plenty of other people in here who would love such attentions from you. Just, not me.”

The apostate stands still in disbelief for a moment, then she grimaces at him, all her wounded pride showing up in her resentful glare.

“You are just a blasted fool!” she growls at him right before turning away from him, her movements clumsy and hurried under the weight of her anger.

“At least on that we can agree, Clara.” Blackwall mutters, as he takes a sip of ale.

Finally he is on his own, the chattering of the customers of the tavern around him and Maryden’s singing voice lulling him back into his familiar brooding. And yet, that strange sense of unease is still lingering over him.

For the love of Andraste, why did Clara’s approach unsettle him that much?

She is a lustful woman seeking the company of someone capable of satisfying her hunger – nothing he is unaccustomed to. On the contrary, ever since his juvenile years, he had been always more than willing to be that ‘someone’.

It’s been quite a while since the last time he had shared a bed with a lady, even before he joined the Inquisition. Traveling all the time, keeping a low profile, isn’t exactly the ideal context to find free sex – and he didn’t have enough money to pay for it. All those nights alone, often spent under the stars, all that he got were the memories of his past encounters, and his own hands.

Abandoning his now empty mug on the table in front of him, his weary eyes search the place for the apostate. There she is, already hitting on another man, a young lad with light hair and a goofy grin on his flushed face: she probably found her prey for the evening.

The warrior peers at Clara carefully, without worrying of being noticed. She isn’t the stunning lady she claims to be, but all in all she’s isn’t that bad either – he often settled for lesser beauties with no regrets.  And yet, there’s nothing in her tall and muscular figure that lights up a spark within him.

He tries to conceive the idea of actually being with her: having her naked before him, her tanned skin glossy with sweat, her small breast bouncing freely in front of his nose. Sinking his fingers in her messy fuzzy brown hair, that is quite short yet enough long to be grabbed and pulled. Seeing her badly painted lips stretching across the length of him, while her flat gaze bore through his, looking for his approval.

What the fuck is wrong with him? His own fantasies usually never failed to stir him up, no matter what.

But today? Nothing. Zero. Zilch. There is only death and desolation down his pants.

_Maker’s balls!_

Defeated by his own traitorous body, he is about to move towards the counter of the bartender, with all the intentions to drink himself into stupor to forget how miserable he is, when a cascade of dark locks attracts his attention.

A small female just passed by his table, her ponytail wiggling following her pace, and Blackwall gets immediately frozen on his spot.

_Gwen?_

No, it’s not the Inquisitor, just some unknown human girl. Still, only the thought of her has been enough to knock the air out of the man’s lungs.

Suddenly, the scenes he has conjured in his mind a moment ago are back, more vivid than ever. Although, instead of the human mage that tried to lure him up in her bed, his beloved lady Lavellan is the protagonist.

His heart rate increases madly at the image of the delicate skin of her back shining at the light of candles, with her long raven curls dancing over her shoulders, almost reaching that perfect round bottom that haunted his dreams from the first time he saw her wearing normal clothes instead of her armor.

No.

He has to stop this. He has to stop thinking about those luscious lips of hers, and how they would taste under his tongue. He has to stop thinking about how her glorious bosom would look like, feel like under his greedy hands. He has to stop thinking about her sweet voice, and what kind of moans he would elicit from her. Yes, he does really have to stop all of this.

Maker’s balls, how does he dare to drag down Gwen into some sick sexual fantasy? She is the blessed Herald of Andraste, he’s not even worth talking to her, let alone… _this_!

He truly is an ignoble obscene bugger – it’s disgusting.

Blackwall props his elbows on the table to support his head, brushing back his hair while a drop of sweat slides down his brow. He feels dizzy, his breathing erratic while he fights back the picture of Gwen, splayed naked on his bed, her charming smile inviting him to join her.

No, stop it. _Stop. It._

Yet, it’s too late now, and he’s too far gone. His body is indeed treacherous, because of how it instantly reacted as soon as lady Lavellan jumped into his reveries.

Damn him, why didn’t he accept Clara’s offer? At least, he could have tried a rebound affair, to blow off some steam.

But it wouldn’t have worked, he know it too well. The only person who could extinguish the fire now burning hot down his groins is the one he could never ever have.

Fuck, what shall he do now? He’s not sure if he has the strength in him to move from his seat, nor if he is actually in condition to do that. Maker’s balls, the tightness down his pants is threatening to kill him. Somehow, he has to take care of the matter with his hands soon–

No. No. _No_.

Again, how could he even _ponder_ about relieving his stress, while having the Herald dancing in his dirty mind?

He is a despicable piece of bronto-shit, that’s it.

The only thing he needs now is a cold bath. Yes, an icy cold one. A blasted _deathly_ cold one.

_Maker’s balls, I’m definitely fucked up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics are from the tavern song “Sera”.


End file.
